Sympathy for the Devil
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: HPDM Slash. Through the eyes of several witnesses, the devastating affair between two boys is being retold. Satan: Ginny cannot help letting her gaze linger on him, but little does she know she is beheld by another pair of eyes. Revised on Oct 2.
1. Azazel

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The song _Sympathy for the Devil_ belongs to the Rolling Stone.

Warning: Dark and disturbing theme.

Summary: Hermione has all the pieces in her hands; but she didn't know there is a puzzle to be solved.

A/N: This chapter has been revised as of Oct 2, 09.

**Azazel**

_The greatest sin of mankind is ignorance._

Pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were laid out neatly before her, but she did not see them. The siren was blaring loudly in the background, but she did not hear it. It was not until one rainy afternoon in the forbidden forest that the hammer struck home, leaving her grappling with the unsettling revelation. And she, Hermione Granger, had run away from it all, unable to believe what she had witnessed in the woods.

After that, she observed as much as she could, letting no detail escape her scrutiny. Clues were dancing so blatantly before her eyes she had to wonder how she could have been so blind. After much critical observation, she had little choice but to concede and accept the inevitable conclusion. Nevertheless, a sense of ill omen lingered in her mind.

As though mirroring the uncertainty and apprehension in her heart, the weather deteriorated. Windows rattled as if about to break; brisk, cold air brought about a constant chill inside the castle. The night sky beyond was a sickening, blushing grey, yet neither rain nor snow would fall.

Hermione was patrolling the deserted corridor when she chanced upon Draco Malfoy strolling towards her. Instant dislike immediately flared up in Hermione, though it was mixed with a sliver of begrudging tolerance, for she had gained a new insight into the Malfoy scion's character. She would attempt to accept Malfoy, if only for her friend's sake.

After taking a deep breath, she continued on her way and brushed past the Slytherin, only to hear Malfoy calling out to her, "Granger, I need to talk to you."

Turning around stiffly to face Malfoy, she feigned ignorance and asked, "What is it?"

"I'm sure you know that already." Malfoy leant his elbow on the window sill, grey eyes flickered with a wicked light. "About Potter, I mean."

Her heart skipped a beat, but Hermione maintained her composure. "What is there to talk about? You could probably tell what my feelings towards this particular topic are."

A small smirk had crept onto Malfoy's lips, a curve sharp as a scythe. "Indeed. Still, I cannot help but notice you have told no one of your discovery. Are you afraid of tarnishing your dear Harry's reputation? Or are you afraid of losing his trust?"

Hermione glared at this silver-tongued devil of a boy; nonetheless, she was disturbed by how uncannily close to the truth Malfoy's words were. "If this is all you want to talk about, then allow me to excuse myself."

Hermione was about to walk away when she was unceremoniously slammed against the wall. She felt nothing but pain as her head connected none too gently with the wall; crimson sparks danced before her eyes. When her vision was clear, she found herself staring at the tip of a wand and those viciously cold pupils of Malfoy's. The primal emotion that was panic rose to the surface of her consciousness, but she forced it down.

"It's not polite to walk away when someone is talking to you," Malfoy drawled, his head tilted curiously to the side, a habitual gesture she had often seen in someone else. For a disconcerting moment, Hermione thought she could see her friend's shadow in Malfoy.

"It's not polite to point your wand at someone's face when you want to talk," Hermione snapped back at Malfoy, those usually warm hazel eyes of hers flashing in anger.

"You are one to talk about etiquette, Granger. Intruding on other people's privacy is not what I would call courteous," he said nonchalantly. "You are quite a voyeur, aren't you? Did you enjoy what you have seen?"

At Malfoy's casual remark, a montage of images fluttered across Hermione's mind like teasing feathers, eliciting a blush on her face. She was tempted to slap him, but she feared any sudden movement on her part would land her in a much worse predicament than she was already in. Instead, she poured every ounce of her frustration into glaring at the infuriating boy.

"I wonder, what would Harry be?" Gently yet mockingly Malfoy caressed her cheek, his hand cold and clammy like that of a corpse. Repulsed, Hermione felt her skin crawl at the contact. "A combination of a sadist and a masochist, I reckon."

Indignation on her friend's behalf coursed through her veins like acid, prompting Hermione to forget for the moment she was threatened at wand point. "Who do you think you are? You don't know anything about Harry!"

"Oh?" A pale eyebrow arched in ill-intent, a look Hermione did not like at all. "And what gives you the confidence in assuming you know him so well? After all," his smirk broadened into a devious grin, "he came to me of his own accord. You see, when he's determined to obtain something, he is not above devising some very Slytherin-like tricks."

"Or so you claimed," Hermione countered heatedly, and yet, no longer did her voice sound certain; the venom of doubt had been injected into her heart. "Your words are meaningless without proof."

Malfoy squinted at her with narrowed eyes. "True. Unfortunately, I am not in the mood to humour you right now."

Hermione was not surprised by Malfoy's refusal to answer, but her inquisitive nature was getting the better of her. Mentally shaking her head, she asked, "What do you want from me?"

He twirled a lock of her hair with his fingers. "There is something I want you to do. Maintain your silence as you have always been, and that includes hiding from Potter the fact you have discovered his little secret. Simple as that."

Reasonable though Malfoy's proposal might seem, Hermione resented the commanding tone in his voice. "And if I don't agree to it?" she asked testily.

"Then you leave me no choice." With quiet yet unmistakable malice Malfoy jabbed his wand under Hermione's chin, forcing her to incline her head. "I have no scruples about cursing you, Granger. And I know quite a few dark curses that will bring about, shall we say, very degrading repercussion?"

Staring into those inorganic grey eyes of Malfoy's, Hermione knew he was serious. And yet, she could tell she was missing a crucial piece of the puzzle. It was like trying to solve the Rubik's cube; no matter how many times she rotated the sides of the cube, she could not make that one lurid red square turn white. "Why don't you simply erase my memory instead?" she questioned.

"I have my reasons, but you don't need to know that," Malfoy replied smoothly and placed a hand beside Hermione's head in undisguised intimidation. "What will it be then?"

Hermione contemplated her options, which were far too limited for her liking. However tempting it might be to simply go along with Malfoy, she needed to know something first. After taking a deep breath, she asked tentatively, "Do you care for him?"

"Now you are prying," he coldly replied while leaning away from her, and Hermione unconsciously breathed a sigh of relief. His reaction piqued Hermione's curiosity, for it was the first time on this night she had seen Malfoy's facade slipping ever so slightly.

Encouraged by her initial victory, she proclaimed boldly, giving the Slytherin no room to refute, "I've seen the way you look at him when you thought no one was watching, and the way you acted when you were alone with him. To be honest, I find it hard to believe you do not at least care a little about him." At that she bored her liquid amber eyes into Malfoy's sharp silver. "And as much as I hate to admit it, it seems Harry actually cares about you. As long as he's happy, I won't interfere."

A burst of mirthful laughter suddenly erupted in the desolate corridor, making Hermione jump in surprise. Bewildered she stared at Malfoy's shaking figure; behind him, the reflection of burning torches was superimposed upon the hazy crimson sky, giving the impression that the sky was on fire.

At last suppressing his laughter, Malfoy purred, "Ah, how sweet of you. You are actually giving me your blessing. But I doubt that fool of a boyfriend of yours would be as accommodating."

With a sinking feeling, she realised she had lost her battle; she was being toyed with by this devil of a boy like an ignorant kitten. "Ron isn't a fool, and he's not my boyfriend. And for your information, you are one of the last persons I ever want Harry to be with. Still, if you actually care about him, I will stay silent as you have so _politely _requested. If not, I will not hesitate to take him away from you."

"Can you?" Malfoy quirked a humorless smirk, a note of unexpected bitterness trickled into his voice. "I rather doubt that-"

Hermione never had the chance to hear what Malfoy was about to say, for at that very instant, Malfoy abruptly dropped his wand and clutched his left forearm, his face contorted in barely concealed agony. When the wand hit the ground with a clatter, Hermione hurriedly scrambled away from the boy. As realization struck her in full, loathing and disgust laced with horror flooded her mind.

Swiftly drawing her wand at Malfoy's hunched figure, she exclaimed furiously, "You took the Mark, didn't you? You-Know-Who is summoning his followers, and you are one of them! Does Harry know about this? Are you tricking him into believing you so that you can hand him over to You-Know-Who?!"

Mercurial eyes slowly raised to gaze at her, Malfoy graced her with a sardonic smile that seemed far too human for Hermione's comfort. "Hardly. And he's not exactly an innocent either, since he has already seen everything there is to be seen."

A blush flitted onto Hermione's face when she caught the implication, and clearly amused, Malfoy chuckled at her. Her mind reeling from the revelation, Hermione did not know what to think anymore. However probable it might be that Malfoy was deceiving her, her intuition told her he was telling the truth, at least in this instance. But then, why...

A sense of disquietude loomed over her as she recalled Malfoy's words. _What gives you the confidence in assuming you know him so well?_ And despite herself, she began to suspect there might be some truth in those words, that perhaps she did not know her friend as well as she imagined. Even Malfoy, whom she thought she could decipher as easily as a simple substitution cipher, turned out to be a multi-layered riddle she could barely comprehend.

"Say, if you want to curse me, then go ahead," came Malfoy's patronising voice, which violently shook Hermione out of her musing. "I have other things to attend to, you see."

"You are not going anywhere!" Hysteria threatened to smother her, prompting her to clutch her wand tightly. "I'll turn you in, and you'll go to Azkaban like your father!" Even as those words departed from her mouth, she realised she had gone too far.

Those devilish silver eyes of Malfoy's narrowed conspicuously, and issuing from their reflective depths was a piercing gleam that stabbed into her very heart. "Be my guest," he uttered softly, his voice laced with a dangerous undercurrent, "and Potter's dirty secrets will be spilled out for the entire world to see."

"You are using Harry to threaten me?! How low of you! And here I thought you might actually feel something for him!"

And the boy clad in unfathomable black replied in a barely audible whisper, his tone laced with something feral that reminded Hermione chillingly of the worst kind of predators -- those whom no one could see coming until too late --, "You know nothing. If you report me to the authorities, Potter will fall, whether I will it or not."

Overcome by a sudden sense of dread, Hermione stared at Malfoy with wide eyes, trying to fathom out if he was telling the truth. From the way Malfoy phrased his threat, it sounded as though he was referring to something other than her friend's love affair. What other damning secret could her friend possibly be concealing from everyone but Malfoy?

Initially she had thought the confrontation with Malfoy might bring her answers, but instead of seeing what was hidden behind closed door, she had reached another set of doors, beyond which was probably another set of doors, and at the end of the labyrinth, a locked door she did not have the key for.

A dark shadow was sailing rapidly at her, and before she knew it, her wand arm was twisted behind her and something cold as steel was pressed against her neck. "Allow me to offer you a piece of advice," Malfoy whispered into her ear from behind, his warm breath teasing her skin. "Next time you are facing an enemy, just hex him and be done with that."

Feeling what was obviously the edge of a blade digging into her throat, she held her breath and attempted to keep her body from shaking in fright but failed. For the first time, she was truly afraid of Draco Malfoy, this young man who had become the embodiment of ink black malice. Then, as suddenly as it happened, she was released and roughly pushed. Stumbling for several steps before regaining her footing, she quickly whirled around, only to find Malfoy smirking condescendingly at her while twirling her wand in his hand.

"I'd love to stay, but I have a previous engagement I must attend to right now." After offering Hermione a mocking bow, he waved the wand, and his own wand flew obediently to him. Robbed of her only chance to fight back, Hermione felt her heart sink. "Perhaps we shall postpone this _enlightening_ discussion of ours to a later date?"

"Of course we will," Hermione hissed through her teeth as she cradled her aching wrist to her chest. "If not, I will make sure Dumbledore knows about you. And don't be mistaken. I'm not doing this for you; I'm doing this for Harry."

For once Malfoy offered neither a scathing remark nor a taunting sneer; he merely tilted his head and appraised her with an unreadable expression on his face. Then, a small smile slowly broke out, an almost secretive smile she could not entirely fathom out. "Whatever you say, Granger. It's good to know we are at least on the same page."

Puzzled though Hermione was by Malfoy's cryptic proclamation, she was not given further chance to dwell on it, for Malfoy suddenly raised his wand at her. Like a helpless swallow whose wings were clipped, she fell to the ground, her consciousness fading as swiftly as quicksand. The last thing she heard was Malfoy's voice whispering to her, "Sweet dreams, Hermione Granger," before darkness claimed her with welcoming arms.

* * *

With a frightful start, Hermione woke up from her involuntary slumber, her head throbbing with pain. Holding her head, she sat up with some difficulty and looked warily around her. She was in the same corridor as before, though the firelight had dwindled to a whisper; Malfoy was nowhere to be found. As she struggled to stand, her hand closed around something familiar on the floor; it was her wand. Comforted yet bewildered, she retrieved her wand and got up. Gazing at the window that would no longer hold her reflection, she saw nothing but a sea of red and black.

However fond she was of puzzles and cryptography, she began to wonder if perhaps this was one of those cursed puzzles she ought not to have touched. Nevertheless, the choice no longer rested with her, for she had unwittingly opened the box. Now that she had learnt of Malfoy's secrets, the Slytherin would most certainly not leave her be. Nonetheless, even that paled in light of whatever secrets her friend was harbouring. Suddenly, it appeared as if everyone at Hogwarts has a secret or two of his own. And now, the secret between her friend and Malfoy had become her secret as well.

Slowly she made her way back to the Gryffindor tower, her mind laden with fatigue and apprehension. She could not stop shivering when a cool draught fluttered by and caressed her face -- it reminded her too much of Malfoy's deathly cold hand.

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: This is actually a predecessor to _When the Black Veil Flutters_. Without this piece, I wouldn't have come up with the idea for _Black Veil_. Yet, this one has a much darker theme. Also, notice that Draco keeps switching between calling Harry "Harry" and "Potter".


	2. Belial

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Warning: R for disturbing themes, violence, and allusion to sexual content (though quite tame).

Summary: Obsession is a game Draco refuses to play; but he has failed to realise he can still be ensnared by it.

**Belial**

_The arrogant one neither forgets nor forgives._

Obsession was not a game he would play, for rationality was to him the ultimate truth in this unpredictable world. And yet, he had failed to realise that even if he had not succumbed to an obsession of his own, he could still be enslaved by it.

On hindsight, the path had been paved out before him all too clearly; yet he did not see it. Like a chick he had been dwelling in the comfort of his shell for too long; he had forgotten there existed the unrelenting world beyond the shell. It was an oversight Draco Malfoy could no more rectify than could he piece back together his broken cage.

How well did he remember the night that marked the end, his end; and it all began with that one simple, mundane note written in ordinary black ink upon a piece of ordinary parchment. "I know about you. Come to the Room of Requirement at midnight."

Had his mind not been preoccupied with those seemingly innocent words, he would have been amused to note that the anonymous sender's choice of hour was precisely the time when darkness spread its wings. The connotation hidden within those words was impossible to miss; from the moment he was marked, he had thrown away his naivety.

He had no idea who the mysterious writer was, but he could discern as much that this meeting was not about to involve the authorities. Nonetheless, if his secret identity had indeed been compromised, he was prepared to silence the offending individual, by death or otherwise.

Armed with his wand and a dagger concealed inside his right sleeve, he arrived before the majestic double door leading into the famously elusive Room of Requirement at the stroke of twelve. The door slid opened noiselessly as though a well-trained butler was manoeuvring silently behind the scene, and swiftly but quietly Draco slipped inside.

The chamber was dark, lit only by a handful of candles strewn casually about. A wall of rosewood bookshelves filled with ancient volumes stared blankly at him, and, to his amusement, a collection of dark artefacts was proudly displayed in glass shelves by the other wall. At the centre of the chamber stood an empty long table, like an altar of old waiting for blood sacrifice.

A lone figure was leaning against the wall near the entrance, half-shrouded in shadow, his stark white shirt contrasted sharply with his dark hair. A tie of scarlet and gold hung loosely about his neck like a noose; under the dreary lighting the scarlet resembled the colour of blood. Beneath a pair of gleaming glasses was a pair of haunting green eyes, which possessed such intensity Draco felt his soul being ripped apart under such scrutiny.

It took but a heartbeat for Draco to realise he was gazing into the eyes of one Harry Potter, but it was a heartbeat too late; for before Draco could react, Potter had already trained his wand at him in an overt gesture of threat. Draco narrowed his cold grey eyes in agitation as he silently regarded the young man before him, a gesture mirrored by Potter, who was in turn studying Draco with his head tilted. With a face as unreadable as a mask, Potter seemed unbelievably composed.

"I wouldn't move if I were you," Potter said blankly while gesturing sharply with his wand in emphasis.

"And may I ask what it is you want?" Draco inquired coolly, as he digested the current situation he found himself in. It was absurdly obvious that Potter was the one who composed that note; the question remains was how much Potter knew about him.

"I know about the Mark, Malfoy." Potter answered without skipping a beat, those normally lucid eyes of his were burning with a sinister blaze; the wand in his hand never wavered once.

Draco had anticipated as much, but the realisation of which still made his pulse quicken. Warily Draco wondered if it was merely a test to see how he would react to such accusation, even though it seemed rather improbable. Nevertheless, playing at ignorance might grant him some insight into Potter's mind. Therefore, with practised ease, Draco replied, "What kind of mark? You will have to be more specific than that."

"Don't play dumb. You know very well what I mean." To Draco's small satisfaction, something akin to irritation broke free from the facade of calmness Potter had displayed. "The Dark Mark. You have the Dark Mark on you."

"And why, pray tell, would you think I have the Dark Mark on me?" smoothly Draco retorted; it was more of an act of reflex than a conscious act of rebellion.

Narrowing his eyes in sudden malice, a harsh laughter escaped Potter's mouth. "If you are innocent, then were I to make you roll up your sleeve right now, there'll be no mark on it, isn't that right? If you are really innocent, then prove it."

Inwardly Draco swore at Potter, for although the Mark was faint as the Dark Lord was not currently in need of his agents, it was clearly visible on his forearm: a winding snake protruding from the mouth of a skull. Amidst his predicament, a sense of defiance flared up in Draco like fire being fuelled by oil. "I do not take orders from you."

"And we both know to whom you are taking orders from." Potter was quick to respond; not for the first time, Draco was amazed by the sharpness of his tongue. When Potter had the mind to hurt, he could wield words as viciously as a skilled assassin wields his blade.

Suddenly growing tiresome of this bizarre charade, Draco pondered whether he could subdue Potter by force. To his disappointment, however, he could not detect any opening in his opponent's invisible armour; apparently Potter had learnt from his hard-earned experience.

A plan had formulated in Draco's mind; surely it was a gamble, but he was willing to place his bet. "You didn't ask me to come here just because you want to know whether I am Marked or not, did you?" Draco said patronisingly while his eyes surveyed the room with faint interest. "What is it you really want?"

The corners of Potter's mouth turned downwards as if in distaste, yet his voice was quiet when he said, "I already know you are Marked. And yes, there is something I want from you."

"Blackmail, hmm?" Draco could not help but smirk. He had already considered such a possibility, but it was laughable that the golden boy of the Gryffindor house was actually trying to blackmail him. "I thought you Gryffindors would never do something as disagreeable as that."

"It depends on who my opponent is," Potter replied coldly, his eerie green eyes seemed frozen by a sudden chill. "I'm not above using dirty tricks when the opponent is you."

"How flattering," Draco spoke in a sarcastic tone that was filled with ill-intent, before he offered Potter a mocking bow, "that the Boy Who Lived is willing to lower himself to my level, just for me."

A piercing glint flashed briefly in Potter's eyes that told Draco much more than words or actions. As if in emphasis Potter spoke with great deliberation, "You deserve no mercy."

"Then why don't you just hand me over to the authority and get this over and done with?" Draco continued fluidly, his sardonic eyes never left Potter's chilling ones. "You said you want something from me. I'm listening."

The candlelight flickered hesitantly as if moved by invisible wind, casting twisting shadows over Potter's unusually pallid face. "I need you to teach me about the Dark Arts, especially the Unforgivables."

Intrigued, Draco studied Potter with shrewd eyes. He had expected something more humiliating, but apparently Potter's mentality was more practical than his own. "I see," Draco said softly. "Is it for revenge? I know Sirius Black was your godfather."

A flash of intense anguish appeared on Potter's darkened face, before it disappeared without a trace; nevertheless Draco had caught sight of it. "What the hell do you know about it?" Potter snarled, clearly agitated by Draco's words.

"It's only logical," Draco replied calmly, his cold grey eyes looking straight into Potter's eerie green ones. "To fight fire with fire. Let them have a taste of their own medicine. Although," Draco deliberately cocked his head to one side in a mocking imitation of Potter's gesture, "I can't help but wonder if this is indeed the only reason you are seeking my help."

When he saw a flicker within those dark pupils, he knew his words had struck a chord in Potter. The wand that was pointing at Draco's chest was wavering ever so slightly; and inconspicuously Draco let the hilt of the dagger slide out slightly until it touched his wrist, the familiar cold touch of the metal offered him some comfort. "Perhaps you are feeling the pull of the mystery therein just as I was?"

Potter gritted his teeth in aggravation, seemingly disturbed by Draco's proclamation. When Potter spoke again, his voice was filled with defiance that sounded remarkably akin to denial. "I'm not like you."

At that Draco offered him a small smirk that conveyed much more than his words. "I wonder about that. After all, you came to me, didn't you?" was all Draco said before his fingers closed around the hilt, and in a flash he threw the dagger at the surprised Potter.

However, Potter's natural agility as a seeker saved him in the nick of time as he hastily dashed aside. The blade sailed past him and hit the wall with a hollow clang. But these precious seconds had afforded Draco enough time to draw his wand at Potter, who, having recovered from the sudden attack, immediately aimed his wand at Draco.

Like a hawk they watched each other guardedly, their wands trained at the other in a silent stand-off as they looked for any weaknesses in the other's stance. The world seemed to stand still as well, and with bated breath it awaited what is about to happen.

"Are we supposed to curse each other now?" Draco asked coolly, his expression closed and unrelenting, effectively hiding the sliver of nervousness that was fluttering in his stomach.

"Seems like it," Potter responded coldly, the burning blaze within those dark pupils threatening to burst forth. Harsh determination was etched on Potter's boyish face, twisting his features until he was barely recognisable from the boy who was regarded by many as the shining beacon of the wizarding world. "But I don't think you would. You see, I've left a message before I came here. If I don't come back in the morning, the message will be sent straight to Dumbledore. I'm sure you would not want that."

Such deviousness as Potter had displayed astounded Draco. Had he not been at the receiving end of Potter's manipulation, he would applaud Potter for his foresight. Tension was mounting on Draco with its crushing weight; he did not even notice he had bitten through the soft flesh of his inner cheek until he tasted the tang of copper rolling in his mouth.

At long last, slowly, as if swearing a solemn vow, Draco said, "You want to learn about the Dark Arts from me, and in return you won't hand me to the authorities."

And Potter nodded silently, his expression calm but uncompromising. He did not smirk, nor did he gloat; it was not something Potter would do.

Grey eyes sharpened like a flash of a knife; Draco had never felt more compelled to drive a knife into Potter's stomach. No, he would not allow Potter to die as swift a death as having his throat slit open; he would make Potter suffer the agony of a slow death.

But for now, Draco would bid his time. "Fine, but on one condition: You'll have to cover for me when I'm away. And I will swear to you, if ever you violate your side of the _bargain_, I don't give a damn how many Aurors are after me, I will come and hunt you down if this is the very last thing I shall ever do."

Coolly Potter appraised him, as though Draco's words hardly concerned him, before a strange, crooked smile appeared on his boyish face, a face that seemed so foreign from the boy who had been exclusively associated with the light. "I'll be looking forward to that day."

* * *

An unexpectedly fast learner Potter turned out to be, like a ravenous lion he drank in everything Draco taught him. For someone who was especially talented at defending against the Dark Arts, Draco was bemused to note that Potter was showing potential to become just as skilled in the Dark Arts itself as he was in the defence against it.

Certain tell-tale signs of subtle changes happening within Potter did not slip past Draco's eyes, even though everyone else, including Potter's meddlesome friends, had failed to recognise the signs as they were. Something in Potter had snapped, and whatever was locked inside the door within that confusing mind of his for all these years had been unleashed.

An obsession was what Draco could recognise in Potter. He seemed cold where other matters were concerned, but a fire raged inside him whenever the topic of the war came up; it was as though his reservoir of emotions was drained to solely fuel for his obsession. One supposed that everything that had happened to Potter for the past sixteen years had finally caught up with him; the death of his godfather was merely the last straw.

Obsession was a dangerous game Draco would rather stay far away from, and yet he found himself being pulled ever closer into this game by one whom he held nothing but loathing and contempt for. Nonetheless, it would taste a lie to say that Draco was not curious about this strange boy that was supposed to be Harry Potter.

* * *

The moon hung high above the starless sky; it was the single night of the month when the moon was at its fullest. A set of large windows lined one side of the Room of Requirement, framing the magnificent view of pale moonlight shining upon high mountains and dark water. Beneath the glow of the cold moon, even the flame under the boiling cauldron upon the stone table seemed to dwindle.

Sitting before the table, Draco meticulously chopped off the heads of the bats which he had caught last night. Distinctly he sensed a pair of intrusive eyes watching him, and with a hint of irritation he turned to look at Potter, who met his inquiring gaze unflinchingly.

As though nothing was amiss, Potter asked while nodding at the cauldron, "Is this really necessary?" The orange glow of the flame was reflected within his dark pupils like a blazing fire with an unquenchable hunger to consume all.

"If I recall correctly, you ask me to teach you the Dark Arts," Draco replied with a chilling air that was as cold as frost. "Potions-making is also a part of it, so I suggest you take note." In secret, he contemplated the small bottle of poison hidden in his pocket.

Such a simple feat to add a few drops of poison into the potion, and such a tempting prospect at that, yet Draco's rationality stayed his hand. Murdering Potter within Hogwarts castle would be foolish at best, for it was unlikely he could get away with it, even if such an act would offer him immediate gratification.

A hand clutched his wrist tightly, making him tense in startlement. The lenses within those accursed glasses of Potter's caught the light, lending an ominous air to him and shielding his eyes from Draco's scrutiny. Surely Potter had not guessed what he was thinking, had he? Draco stared at him with narrowed, contemplative eyes, before slowly pulling his hand away, and resumed his work.

"It's your choice whether you want to learn it or not. I, for one, would feel it a blessing if you would excuse yourself from my company."

Not once did he see the eerie green flame burning violently within those dark eyes nor the teeth sinking spitefully into pale lips until they drew blood.

* * *

Never being one prone to recklessness, Draco was, nonetheless, beginning to feel mutinous; for being blackmailed by his worst enemy had begun to take a toll on him. Admittedly it was foolish on his part, but to see Potter, who had been frighteningly composed up to then, losing control of his temper that one moonless night in the empty corridor, it brought a sense of detached satisfaction in Draco, even when Potter shoved him roughly against the wall and grabbed his collar.

"You better watch your mouth, Malfoy!" Potter was seething, even with his obvious attempt at mastering his rage. "I don't give a damn who you think you are, but one more word about my parents and Sirius, and you will pay dearly for your loud mouth!"

Draco could not help letting a sardonic smirk creep onto his lips. "Am I not already paying for it? And besides, it's not in our agreement that I cannot speak ill of your parents or your godfather, even though you could have done so. Oh, I see, your desire for revenge is far greater than your desire to defend your deceased elders' honour."

"Shut up!" It was exhilarating to see the fury in Potter boiling over, even when it was directed at him. "Don't think I'm not going to use those curses you taught me against you!"

"I'm sure you would," Draco spoke in a voice dripping with biting viciousness, his eyes gleaming maliciously. "Then why don't you do it right now and make me proud?" Yes, he had become unbelievably reckless, but at the moment Draco honestly did not care.

Green eyes darkened into bottomless pits; the fury in Potter appeared to abruptly subside, and it was replaced by some other equally intense emotion Draco could not fathom out. A hand reached out tentatively and brushed against Draco's cheek. In defiance Draco turned his head aside to avoid the touch, but Potter had gripped his chin, forcing Draco to meet his gaze while brushing his thumb lightly against Draco's lips --

"Harry?!" A shrill female voice cut through the mist like a knife, and instantly Draco swore under his breath. His instinct took over, and immediately he pulled out his wand, but Potter was even faster than he was.

Bringing his wand upon the rigid figure of the offending girl, Potter spoke the word with chilling precision, _"Crucio!" _Less than half a second later, the girl was writhing on the floor, her scream of sheer agony piercing the silence of the corridor.

_"Stupefy!" _It only took a fleeting second for Draco to silence the girl, but the damage was done. The girl sprawled on the stone floor, unconscious, her slightly frayed black robe and vibrant red hair fanning out on the ground like a drowning woman. Draco had no need to look at her face; he already knew who she was judging by her hair -- it was Ginny Weasley.

When the echoing sound of hasty footsteps was approaching ever closer, Draco could not help but swear again. Pointing his wand at the prone form of Ginny Weasley, he muttered, _"Obliviate!"_

With that taken care of, Draco turned to Potter and said urgently, "We have to go." But Potter ignored him and stared blankly at Ginny Weasley with unseeing eyes. Knowing they had very little time to lose, Draco promptly grabbed Potter's arm and forcefully pulled him along. Potter did not resist at all as he followed Draco's lead.

Soon they were once again inside the safe haven of the Room of Requirement. Only when Draco made sure the door was securely locked did he finally turn to Potter. "If this is not stupidity, then I don't know what is," Draco sneered sarcastically. "And who knows? If we get caught, maybe we'll become cellmates in Azkaban."

Potter seemed oblivious to Draco's reproach as he stared at his own wand. "I thought casting the Cruciatus was supposed to be difficult, but it wasn't. That doesn't make any sense." The empty monotony of Potter's voice elicited a vague sense of unease in Draco; Potter was acting too unconcerned about the fact that he had just cast an Unforgivable on his best friend's sister. "I mean, I've tried it on Bellatrix Lestrange, but that time it didn't work."

Draco could not help raising an eyebrow at that; he did not know the full details of what happened in the Department of Mysteries that night -- when his father was arrested, he added bitterly.

Forcing his mind to concentrate on the problem at hand, he said dismissively, "I suppose you hate Weasley more than you hate my Aunt Bella, who murdered your godfather. Or perhaps," Draco gave Potter a humourless smile, "you finally realise you are playing for the wrong side. How does it feel? Does it thrill you to see her rolling on the ground like that, completely at your mercy?"

Wrath was what Draco saw flooding Potter's very being, such intoxicating hatred that perfectly mirrored Draco's own feeling. And yet those dark green eyes of Potter's were burning with a wild gleam that Draco would later sorely regret for not seeing sooner.

Like a beast going in for the kill, Potter had abruptly pushed him against the bookshelves and sealed the words that were about to pour out of Draco's mouth, his wand fell to the ground with a clatter. Draco's shoulder-blades banged painfully against the shelf, rattling its content. Yet Draco was too busy fighting with Potter to care, and it was made all the more difficult when Potter clutched both his arms in an iron grip; the blade of the dagger was digging uncomfortably into Draco's arm.

Brutally Draco bit hard on Potter's lower lip, until warm, salty liquid flowed into Draco's mouth, bringing with it a sense of savage satisfaction. Surely Potter had felt the pain, and yet Potter merely crushed into him until no space existed between their struggling bodies, his mouth hungrily devouring Draco's like a vampire lusting for blood.

Suddenly feeling light-headed, Draco opened his mouth to gasp for air, and Potter in turn pulled away, even though he was still grasping Draco's arms. A numbing sensation spread in Draco's arms; he could feel the blade cutting through his skin and blood soaking his sleeve. Panting from lack of air, Draco glared at Potter with such burning iciness that could freeze the blood veins of a man. "Is this part of the deal as well?" Draco hissed, his voice lowered to a dangerous whisper.

Those haunting green eyes that were gazing at him seemed strangely bright, and yet those pupils seemed strangely dark. With bruised lips Potter spoke dispassionately, "Yes," before he captured Draco's lips with such desperate urgency that contradicted markedly with his voice. As tongues entwined in an imitation of passion, Draco tightened his hands until his nails bit into his palms, his heart blackened until no light could ever penetrate through --

Time immeasurable had passed before Draco found he could breathe easily once again and his reason fully recovered. Potter was sprawled on top of him, his weight settled suffocatingly upon Draco. With dark, unfathomable eyes Potter gazed down at him; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

"You owe me for Weasley," Draco said impassively, his eyes engaged Potter's in an unspoken challenge.

"Weren't you just trying to save your own neck back there?" Potter's tone was just as nonchalant, although Draco did not miss the slight twist at the corner of his mouth.

"You still owe me, Potter," Draco replied, returning a contemptuous smile of his own. "I'll let you know when I want you to kill someone for me."

Furious, Potter grasped Draco's throat, as if wanting nothing more than to squeeze every last bit of air out of Draco's lungs. "Be careful of what you say, Malfoy," harshly Potter snarled like a wounded beast, "or I'll make you regret it!"

But Draco heeded not to his warning and laughed, before he brought his bloodstained dagger to Potter's throat and pressed the cold blade against warm, living flesh. "You'll have to do better than that." Snidely he regarded Potter's alarmed face and stiffened form as blood trickled down from the shallow cut on Potter's neck, mingling with Draco's blood on the reddened dagger. With an enigmatic smirk that meant so much and so little, Draco whispered, "_Harry_."

* * *

Several days later, Ginny Weasley was released from the hospital wing, apparently having recovered from the attack. The signs of a Cruciatus being cast on her were all too apparent, nonetheless the faculty was unable to capture the culprit, for the victim's memory of the incident had been erased.

Despite it all, Potter was acting unbelievably nonchalant about the whole incident, calmly playing the role of a concerned friend in his friends' presence. Not an ounce of remorse could Draco detect from him; either Potter was becoming good at hiding his own emotions, or he did not feel even a shard of guilt at all.

* * *

It was a typical Potions class like any other: students busily concocting their assigned work while the new Potions teacher rambled on. Yet Draco's concentration was lapsing, for he felt Potter's gaze fixated upon him from the back of the classroom.

Those naked gazes Potter directed at him were like proclamation; it ever surprised Draco that no one else noticed them. Playing along with Potter's game was, at the moment, the best course of action; and pretence had always been a skill Draco was especially adept at. However, Potter's gazes were infuriating and distracting to the point that Draco was sorely tempted to gouge out those offensive green eyes that were slowly suffocating him under their weight.

A brief lapse of focus was all it took, and the empty glass tube Draco had been holding shattered, sending a searing pain to his palm and making him hiss. Looking down, he winced when he saw the remnant of the glass tube cutting into his palm; blood stained his white hand and dripped onto the grimy tabletop like a small red poppy in bloom.

After much unnecessary commotion from his fellow classmates, the professor sent him to the hospital wing. As he strode alone in the deserted, darkening corridor, snippets of droning voices could be heard seeping through from behind closed doors like a constant string of whispers.

It was a little while later when Draco was aware of heavy footstep trailing behind him. There was no need for Draco to confirm the identity of his stalker by such an unrefined method as looking over his shoulder; he already knew who it was. As irritation rose inside him, he clutched his wrist tightly, but he slackened his pace all the same.

The sound of the footsteps was approaching ever closer, until it was right behind him. When a pair of arms snaked itself around Draco's waist and forcefully stopped him from his track, it took more effort than he thought to prevent himself from flinching as his back hit a warm chest.

"Let me see it," Potter said quietly, his chin rested on Draco's shoulder. Without waiting for Draco's reply, Potter grasped Draco's wrist firmly and brought it close to him. "Does it hurt?"

Draco narrowed his eyes even though he knew Potter could not see it. Pretence of affection was the worst kind of insults Potter could inflict upon him; then again, pretence was what Draco was doing as well. Biting his lips impulsively, Draco replied dryly, "I'll live, thanks for asking. But I'll bleed to death if you don't let go."

And dutifully Potter loosened his hold, allowing Draco to pull himself free from the embrace. Whirling around to face Potter, Draco carefully schooled his expression into one of indifference. And yet Potter was gazing at him with such dark, ferocious eyes that Draco found himself unable to turn away.

Potter spoke no word as he took off his tie of scarlet and gold around his neck, revealing the scar that was faintly visible beneath his collar. "Hold out your hand," Potter said calmly while holding the tie.

Draco raised an eyebrow questioningly, but he did as he was told, for he wanted to see what was Potter's next move. Lightly Potter ran a finger over the cuts on his palm; the sharpening pain made Draco grimace, though he suppressed the urge to pull his hand away. Potter immediately withdrew his finger, and with surprising gentleness he wrapped the tie around Draco's injured hand, before bringing Draco's wrist to his lips. "There," Potter said, his fierce eyes never left Draco's as he let go of Draco's hand.

"And you expect me to run around Hogwarts with a Gryffindor tie wrapped around my hand?" Draco pointed out slyly. "This is blunt, even for you."

"Subtlety is overrated," was all Potter said before he possessively pulled Draco in by the neck for a tantalising kiss. "I'll see you tonight," softly Potter whispered against his lips, a tease and a dark promise of things to come.

"We'll see." Draco regarded him with half-veiled eyes, shielding every trace of detestation he held for Potter. Then resolutely he strolled off with Potter's green eyes trained on his retreating back. The silken tie enveloping his hand felt like bindings, but it was not to Potter that he was chained to.

Yes, it was a game, a game of pretence and manipulation between two players who were now on equal footing. For now Draco would play along, until the opportune moment comes when he could at last deliver the slow, painful death he had promised Potter. Seeing the look on Potter's face when Draco drove that knife into his stomach would surely grant him such orgasmic ecstasy that he would minutely savour it until he himself fell into the dark oblivion.

It tasted almost like an obsession.

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: This is Draco's side of the story, taking place before _Azazel. _Belial, the demon of pride and arrogance, is well known for being particularly eloquent. It suits Draco well, doesn't it? Draco is particularly vengeful in this story, though I cannot decide whether he's being sadistic or masochistic or both.


	3. Lucifer

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are, regrettably, not mine.

Warning: R for dark and disturbing themes, violence, and sexual content.

Summary: Harry ascends through the help of many, but it only takes one to make him fall.

**Lucifer**

_To fly is to be in control; to fall is to be out of control._

There is something to be said about poison: Sometimes, in order to counteract a poison, one has to ingest another poison. In other words, in order to fight fire, one has to become fire itself.

Harry Potter would not call it an enlightenment _per se_, but rather, it was a rude awakening. One supposed in his mind he had always known which path he would end up travelling; but it took the death of his godfather to truly open his eyes that had been blinded by the sugar coating of this magical world.

It did not mean he was playing at being a martyr, however. Revenge was the only thing that mattered to him now, the one thing he obsessively clung to. Nobleness wins hearts, not wars; this is the cruel reality. If he must poison himself in order to exact his revenge, then he would gladly drink the entire bottle.

And so began his venture into the realm of the Dark Arts; books were his guides, and the Room of Requirement his study chamber. Many a sleepless night he would remain in his sanctuary, experimenting and practising and delving in things his former, naive self would never even contemplate dabbling in.

It had been yet another sleepless night when he, beneath the disguise of his invisibility cloak, was once again silently roaming about the ancient corridors of Hogwarts castle. It was then that he saw him, a dark figure leaning heavily against the lattice window, his arm cradled protectively against his chest in a state of unexpected vulnerability.

Pale locks had veiled his face, but the silvery shade of blond and the ivory skin were more than enough to inform Harry of the identity of this phantasmal figure. It was Draco Malfoy, his nemesis from the Slytherin House.

A slight tremor was coursing through Draco's body as though he was suffering from cold or from pain, of which Harry could not tell. A sense of morbid curiosity had overtaken Harry, urging him to wait and see what happens; he did not have to wait long.

As though suddenly sensing an intruding presence near him, Draco removed his hand from the arm he was clutching tightly to, and pulled down his sleeve to conceal whatever he wanted to hide. But in those brief seconds, the merciless moonlight had laid bare the angry black mark upon sinfully white skin: the grotesque image of a serpent protruding from the mouth of a sunken skull.

It was at that point when Harry's memory became a hazy blur; even now he could not remember what had taken place during that time. By the time his mind had snapped awake to reality once more, it was already daybreak. He found himself lying on his bed in the Gryffindor tower, the image of black curves upon pure white flesh dancing before him as though burnt into his eyes.

When the dreary morning arrived, he could no longer be sure if he might not have dreamt it all. After all, he had gotten nothing more than a glimpse of Draco's arm; it was possible that it had been nothing more than his overly vivid imagination. In any case, it would be in his best interest to confirm whether Draco was indeed Marked.

This was the beginning of their game of cat and mouse, where the hunted was oblivious of the hunter who was stalking his every movement. Soon, Harry had come to learn that despite Draco's overt boisterousness, therein lay a cunning and ruthless mind that few people knew exist. This vastly different side of Draco Malfoy unnerved Harry; it was like watching a dangerous predator disguising himself as a sixteen year old boy.

Granted, Draco had been cautious to the point of paranoid in hiding his true self from inquisitive eyes; it was a shame that despite it all he had not been careful enough.

* * *

The fifth floor Prefect's bathroom was one of the few privileges offered to the prefects of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Appropriate then that it was one of the few luxurious chambers Hogwarts castle had to offer, with a polished white marble bathtub and an elegant chandelier hanging from a baroque-styled ceiling. Yet, Harry, hidden in his cloak of invisibility, was in no mood to appreciate the splendour as he once had in his younger years; he was waiting for his quarry to arrive.

While Draco's behaviour had seemed highly unpredictable at first, Harry had come to figure out certain patterns. He figured the only time he could ever get a glimpse of Draco's arm would be during his bath, however unsavoury such an idea might be. Deducing the time at which he could execute his plan was no small feat; by comparison, obtaining the password to the Prefect's bathroom was obscenely easy.

Not long after Harry had settled in a corner where he had a full view of the bathroom, the majestic door silently parted, and in walked Draco, who was for once clad in simple shirt and slacks.

Absently Draco turned on one of the golden taps, filling the sunken bathtub with hot water that smelled of musk, before he slowly discarded his clothes. When Harry finally saw once more the horrible tattoo on Draco's left arm, his doubt had evaporated like steam. And yet, he felt nothing more than grim satisfaction that his suspicion was justified, and renewed resentment for what Draco had chosen to become.

Steadfastly gazing at the sleeping mermaid portrait, he willed himself not to pry further on the bare flesh of his arch-enemy; privately he wondered if perhaps there still remained in him a shadow of his former, decent self. Yet, when a soft sigh that was almost inaudible amidst the sound of rippling water reached his ear, no amount of restraint could hinder him from casting his eyes upon the other occupant in the room.

And the scene before him caught his breath. A faint mist of steam lingered in the air, but it could not obscure the boy who was soaked in water, his body lax and his head reclined lazily on the edge of the refined marble, baring his throat in a manner that was oddly sensual.

Those mercurial grey eyes were glazed and half-veiled, as though his mind was only half aware of his surrounding. Damp blond hair had darkened into a shade of molten gold, with several strands plastered onto slightly flushed cheeks. Pearly white teeth bit lightly upon pale lips, before another sigh escaped from those parted lips. Strange heat was growing inside of Harry like a fire suddenly being ignited; and his intrusive eyes refused to avert from the boy who was pleasuring himself.

When the boy at last let out a final sigh, Harry found himself exhaling with him. Panting slightly, Draco languidly bowed his head and brushed his hair away from his face; the inky Dark Mark was glowering brightly against flawless skin that was tinted a shade of crimson.

It was like a slap on the face; Harry recoiled sharply from the sight. Luckily, Draco did not appear to notice a foreign presense in the room. After Draco was gone, Harry sat alone for a long time, brooding over what he had witnessed as the first sliver of poison seeped into his heart. It was then that the skeleton of a most unthinkable scheme was conceived in his chaotic mind.

* * *

The plan was a simple one: He would keep quiet about Draco's affiliation, and in turn Draco would become his mentor in the Dark Arts. Admittedly it was a gamble, for what Harry was about to do was akin to a moth embracing the deadly flame. And yet, this was the very first time he truly felt he knew what he was doing, that he was controlling his own life. No matter how dire the consequences might be, he had no thought of backing down.

Hence, he sent the unsigned note to Draco and waited in the Room at the appointed time. As he stood by the door, absentmindedly twirling his wand, a flutter of nervousness crept into his stomach. If Draco had thought it was nothing more than a malicious joke, it would be a total waste of Harry's effort.

Yet when the extravagant double door silently parted, Harry knew he had caught him at last.

To his credit, Draco turned out to be a surprisingly adept teacher, whose knowledge in the Dark Arts extended well beyond what was written in books. Considering Draco's family history, which was most likely reeked with blood, Harry supposed he should not be surprised.

Despite Draco's cooperation, Harry was wary of him. What Draco had said to him did not feel like a desperate act of defiance, but a declaration that would one day come to pass. There was no doubt in Harry's mind that given the chance, Draco would silence him. And yet, for reasons that eluded Harry, his heart was filled with a peculiar sense of anticipation, just as how he could not explain his frequent glances upon those cold white hands and thin pale lips.

* * *

Stepping through the threshold, Harry walked into the Room that had since become a shared secret of two: rosewood bookshelves cluttered with books on forbidden magic, fragile glass cases carried artefacts of dubious nature, and a white-washed stone table set at centre stage.

Yet, he noticed none of it, for his eyes were immediately drawn to the figure standing by the moonlit window. Draco's head was bowed in contemplation while blond locks shrouded his face. Bathed beneath the ethereal moonlight, his alabaster skin was glowing with unrivalled paleness. Harry found his breath stolen away by the sight before him, this vision that was surely nothing more than an illusion from another world.

But the otherworldly image was shattered when, in one swift movement, Draco wheeled around with his wand aimed at Harry, his sharp grey eyes piercing into Harry's haunting green. Out of well-trained reflex, Harry drew his wand as well, but he stopped short of pointing it at Draco.

Even from a distance, Harry could tell Draco was weighing his options: whether or not to satisfy himself by having Harry at his mercy and risk having his own identity exposed. Harry allowed himself a crooked smile; he knew Draco would never dare commit murder within the confines of Hogwarts castle.

Little by little, Draco lowered his wand, but like Harry, he did not put it away. "You are late," Draco said coolly.

"You are early," Harry countered nonchalantly as he strode towards one of the heavy bookshelves, yet his eyes remained trained on Draco cautiously.

"The sooner it is that I can escape your presence the better," Draco replied. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watched Draco walk towards the stone table, where books were spread out on its smooth surface. "After all, you are a busy man. I am sure you have other things to do."

"Speak for yourself." Harry snorted, for he of all people knew what kind of _things_ Draco had to attend to from time to time. "Are you honestly going to teach me how to use the Unforgivables?"

"There is no trick in casting the Unforgivables, as I've already informed you," Draco said calmly while closing one of the books before him with a thud. "It's the intent that matters: the intent to control, the intent to hurt, the intent to kill.

"If you want to practise casting the Unforgivables, you can go and find for yourself whatever specimen you come across to practise on. However," Draco's voice had turned a degree colder, a voice that could freeze a man's heart, "do not expect me to do this for you. As our current agreement stands, I only need to teach you the Dark Arts. Whether you succeed or not is no concern of mine."

"Really? I wonder if you would still say that when you are rotting in Azkaban," Harry said, a slightly twisted smile gracing his face. He was pleased to see a hint of dangerous undercurrent rising from Draco's deceptively composed facade. "As for the Unforgivables, why, you can always volunteer yourself."

"That's quite an honour," Draco uttered while offering Harry a mocking bow, before he flicked his wand with a decisive wave, and the books that were strewn upon the table flew back to their former places on the bookshelves, "for you to contemplate the idea of me being your first kill."

"Well, it won't be just a simple _Avada Kedavra_ in your case," Harry remarked casually as he eyed the wand in Draco's hand. "I'll make sure of that, though I wouldn't mind using the other two on you."

For several heartbeats, Draco's face was as unreadable as a Death Eater's mask, before a patronising smile appeared on Draco's lips. "I see, it is control you want above all else. Are you tired of being pulled around like a puppet and would like to be in charge for once? Very well then, what would you have me do should you place me under the Imperius?"

Although Harry was bothered by Draco's words, he felt a flutter of thrill in his abdomen all the same. "I haven't decided yet," Harry replied placidly, returning a humourless smile of his own. "I'll let you know in due time."

Draco's harsh grey eyes narrowed into slits, resembling blades that were gleaming in darkness, silently awaiting the opportune moment to strike. Unflinchingly Harry fixated his dark green eyes on Draco in challenge.

It was some time later when Draco finally broke his silence. "I must admit," Draco uttered softly as he sat down on the surface of the stone table, "I'm curious to see what you are truly capable of when you put your mind to it."

The implication behind Draco's words was not lost on Harry, and it brought out a bout of mild irritation in him. "Impertinent, aren't we? I might just break your arm for saying something like that," Harry said in complete indifference as he twirled his wand in plain sight.

"We'll see," Draco replied impassively, then made a circular motion with his wand.

A wisp of black smoke flew out of Draco's wand and gathered itself in mid-air, slowly shaping itself into a mass of blackness. When Draco made a curt motion with his wand, the thread that connected the wand and the dark being snapped; and there looming before Draco was a dark figure that resembled a human shadow.

"Kill it," was all Harry heard Draco say before the shadow sprang towards Harry in such seamless movement that it was clearly not human.

Hastily Harry moved to the side, avoiding the sudden assault from the shadow. Swearing under his breath, Harry swiftly shot a curse of his own at the shadow. The curse tore away part of the shadow's right side, leaving behind a grotesque creature that could have spun from a circus act.

And yet the shadow was still moving; this time it glided over to Harry's left. Smoothly Harry turned around and fired another curse. The shadow, as though having a life of its own, managed to avoid the curse, but Harry was already on the move. Rolling to the side, Harry threw a lightning curse at it. This time his aim was true, and the shadow was momentarily stunned by a massive bolt of electric shock.

Just as Harry was about to finish it off, the shadow abruptly melted away into a wisp of black smoke. Looking over to where Draco was seated, Harry saw Draco holding his left arm close to his chest, his pale face contorted in agony.

It did not take long for Harry to figure out what it was about. Narrowing his dark eyes in close scrutiny, Harry asked, "He's calling?"

Giving Harry a sidelong sullen glance, Draco answered vaguely, "I have to go," before he slid off the table in one fluid motion. Without another word, he strode towards the door, but Harry would have none of it.

Standing directly in Draco's path, Harry asked as resentment began to grow, "Going to kill someone tonight?"

There was an unexpected display of haughtiness in Draco's demeanour as he regarded Harry, a malicious gleam flashing within those devilish eyes of his. "Maybe. Maybe it's even someone you know."

Agitated by Draco's words, Harry glared at Draco while fighting the urge to twist Draco's arm. "You really should watch that mouth of yours, or it may well be the death of you someday," Harry whispered quietly, a sound not unlike a serpent's hiss.

"If this is supposed to be a warning of some sort, it's not very convincing," Draco replied smoothly as if nothing was amiss, yet the hue on his face had turned deathly pale liken to that of a corpse.

Before he had fully registered what he was doing, Harry's hand reached out of its own accord, but sharply Draco repelled from him. Using Harry's momentary lapse to his advantage, Draco neatly sidestepped him and reached the ornate double door.

"Unless you are going to immobilise me, I'm going." Draco threw out those words before disappearing into the dark corridors of Hogwarts castle.

When the door closed itself once more, Harry could no longer contain the fury boiling inside him. Viciously he lashed his wand at the nearby bookshelf, and the shelf was instantly severed in half as though a sword had cleaved through it. Woods and books alike fell onto the ground with a loud thump that resonated terribly in the Room like ominous thunder.

* * *

It was a disease; his loathing for Draco could only be matched by his growing obsession for him. Draco was the very representation of what Harry detested above all else; yet Harry could not keep his eyes away, could not take his mind off this despicable boy.

The more he watched Draco, the more he noticed the many little things about Draco Malfoy: the haughty yet elegant demeanour in which Draco held himself, the small contemptuous smirk that possessed an odd allure, the pale nape that seemed longing to be touched, and those profound grey eyes that were like pools of liquid silver. He wanted to know if Draco's quicksilver tongue was indeed as razor sharp as his words, if that translucent skin of his was as hard as marble, if the inside of his body was as cold as ice.

More than once when night fell over the castle, Harry would find his hands roaming over himself as images of slender neck and lily white hands and parted lips swirled in his mind. And afterwards, he would hate Draco and himself all the more for it. No matter what he did, he could not slake this lust of his; it only grew until it eventually devoured him.

And on that moonless night, the forbidden door was irrevocably flung open; no lock of this world or the next could ever keep it shut again.

"You better watch your mouth, Malfoy!" Harry shook Draco roughly by the collar and shoved him against the wall. "I don't give a damn who you think you are, but one more word about my parents and Sirius, and you will pay dearly for your loud mouth!"

Yet fearlessly Draco gazed at him, his face painted with cruel amusement. "Am I not already paying for it? And besides, it's not in our agreement that I cannot speak ill of your parents or your godfather, even though you could have done so. Oh, I see, your desire for revenge is far greater than your desire to defend your deceased elders' honour."

Those hateful grey eyes seemed able to pry into his mind; Harry longed more than anything else to gouge them out. "Shut up! Don't think I'm not going to use those curses you taught me against you!"

"I'm sure you would," Draco taunted, daring Harry to let go of the restraint he had clung desperately to. "Then why don't you do it right now and make me proud?"

Never before had Harry wanted so much to break Draco with his bare hands, yet a darker hunger had stealthily latched onto him. Suddenly he began to notice how Draco's body was flush against his own, how a faint scent of cedar and musk lingered upon Draco, and how those smooth skin of moonlit ivory seemed to absorb the warm light from the torches hanging on the walls.

As reason took flight, Harry tentatively reached out to touch Draco's cheek, but sharply Draco jerked his face away from his touch. Something twisted inside of Harry; a hint of something far more overwhelming than pure hatred flooded Harry's mind, and like spider's silken threads, it took hold of him.

Tightly he gripped Draco's chin, giving him no room to refuse; there was not a hint of emotion on Draco's mask-like face except for a slight narrowing of those appraising eyes. Daring himself to push further, Harry brushed his thumb against Draco's lips.

Those insolent lips were surprisingly soft against his thumb; it was inconceivable how those tender lips could utter such sharp, venomous words. As he marvelled at the unexpected discovery, his mind was flooded with images of steam and white marble and parted lips uttering sighs of pleasure.

"Harry?!" A most unwelcome voice broke through his reverie, and violently he snapped his head towards the girl who stood a little away from them. There was an expression of utter disbelief on her face.

A part of Harry's mind registered the girl as Ginny Weasley, yet his body had already acted on its own and drawn his wand at her. It was a precious moment of perfect clarity as he had never experienced before, a moment when he knew he was in complete control; there was no hesitation in his voice as he uttered the word, "_Crucio!_"

As he watched Ginny writhing on the ground, her scream piercing the peaceful silence like a whip, he felt nothing but an empty void in his heart; it was as though his emotions had been exhausted, and no longer could he feel anything.

He did not notice Ginny had lost consciousness until Draco forcefully dragged him away from the scene, and Harry let himself be led. Time immemorial had past before Harry realised they were back in the Room, and Draco was talking to him, his voice seeping into Harry's mind like poison.

"I suppose you hate Weasley more than you hate my Aunt Bella, who murdered your godfather. Or perhaps," Draco paused for a heartbeat, "you finally realise you are playing for the wrong side. How does it feel? Does it thrill you to see her rolling on the ground like that, completely at your mercy?"

Those words were resonating with the dark being he had meticulously locked away in the deepest recess of his mind. Like a sleeping lion being provoked, it awoke. As a whirlwind of ferocious emotions took hold of him, the last remnant of his reason was completely burnt away, leaving him with a forceful desire that would stay dormant no more.

A montage of sensations assaulted all his senses as he poured all his frustration upon the boy before him: teeth biting through bruised lips; tongues entwined in cannibalistic intercourse; smooth skin tasted of bitter cedar and musk; strangled gasps escaping from defiant lips; cold hands clutching him while he drowned in maddening heat; stormy grey eyes bored into him with such intensity they scorched him. A wild thought came to him as he melted completely into Draco: surely this was how it felt like to be burnt at the stake.

When the delirious heat slowly faded away into the night, he was sprawled on top of Draco with his forehead rested on Draco's shoulder. Draco's body was warm and sweaty against his own; he could feel the rise and fall of Draco's chest as he breathed. As Harry's racing heartbeat began to return to normal, he raised his head to look at Draco. Draco's cheeks still retained a tinge of red, but his expression was closed like a door being slammed shut.

"You owe me for Weasley," Draco uttered coolly, his dark eyes daring Harry to refute.

Harry could not prevent the slight quirk of annoyance from creeping onto his bruised lips. "Weren't you just trying to save your own neck back there?"

"You still owe me, Potter." Draco smiled the same sardonic smile that infuriated Harry. "I'll let you know when I want you to kill someone for me."

The fury in Harry that had died down just now had risen to its full height once more. Clutching Draco's throat, Harry growled as his eyes flashed with the feral light of a fell beast, "Be careful of what you say, Malfoy, or I'll make you regret it!"

To his chagrin, Draco let out a peal of laughter, as though Harry's words meant little to him, even at the face of certain death. Suddenly Draco pressed his accursed dagger against Harry's throat; and Harry, who had not anticipated such a move, tensed. With some alarm, Harry could keenly feel a flash of pain and a trickle of blood sliding down his throat from where the cold blade cut into his skin.

And Draco, with bloodstained lips curled into a secretive smirk, purred softly as though whispering words of love, "You'll have to do better than that, _Harry_."

A shiver of thrill trailed down Harry's spine at Draco's voice, and suddenly he found the control he thought he had held securely in his hands slipping away from his grasp. The earth beneath his feet had suddenly disappeared, leaving him grappling for a firm hold, only to find himself grasping nothing but air.

* * *

Days passed by in alternation between hunger and satiation. The more he spent time with Draco, the greater his longing for him grew. Like a possessed man, Harry stalked, spied, and eavesdropped; nothing seemed ever enough to sedate the dark being that was lurking menacingly inside him.

Even now, as they were seated in the Great Hall during mealtime, Harry was tracking Draco's every movement with his eyes, memorising the angular feature and lean figure he had come to be intimately acquainted with. The way Draco delicately caught a small piece of fruit with his teeth reminded Harry of how it felt when Draco took him in his mouth, teeth lightly grazing his skin. So absorbed was Harry in his musing that he did not notice someone had been calling his name until his shoulder was being shaken.

"Oi, you alright there?" Ron Weasley said with a befuddled frown on his freckled face. "You look so out of it." And it seemed Ron was not the only one who noticed something was wrong with Harry, for Hermione Granger's hazel eyes were searching Harry's face curiously.

"Just thinking about something, that's all," Harry replied as naturally as he could; it would not do for either of them to suspect anything. "Ginny, I mean. Who would do something like that to her?"

As a dark tempest settled itself on Ron's brows and a shadow of distress loomed over Hermione's face, Harry knew he had successfully diverted their attention.

"I'm sure all the teachers are looking into it," Hermione said in an obvious attempt to comfort Ron, who was scowling darkly at the reminder. "No doubt they will find the culprit soon."

Harry thought differently as he threw a furtive glance at Ginny, who was, in all appearance, mingling normally with her classmates. Draco's memory charm had dutifully accomplished its task; the professors had not dared to break the charm cast upon Ginny for fear of breaking her mind in the process. Without a word, Harry inconspicuously turned his gaze back to Ron and Hermione.

"I swear I'm going to kill that bastard!" Ron declared as he violently stabbed his knife into the lamb chop before him, as though doing so would afford him some relief.

Playing the role of a good friend as he was expected to, Harry supported Ron with appropriate words of his own. It had grown increasingly easy to play the part that the rest of the world had thrust upon him; and judging by the reaction of his unsuspecting audience, he had put on a very convincing act.

Withdrawing himself from the fruitless conversation, he let his gaze glide over to where the object of his desire sat at the far end of the grand hall. Fascination turned to agitation, however, when he caught sight of Draco leaning obscenely close to the female classmate sitting beside him. And the girl, whom Harry only recognised by sight, was giggling at whatever Draco had whispered into her ear. As a wave of jealousy washed over Harry, his grip on the knife in his hand had tightened to the point that it nearly bent; it took all the restraint he still possessed in him to stay his hand from casting the Cruciatus on the girl in front of the entire staff and student body.

It was not long after that Harry trapped Draco in a deserted corner within the claustrophobic library, voraciously ravishing that pure white neck of Draco's as his hands fondled the front of Draco's trousers without mercy; it pleased him to feel a shudder of reaction through the fabric.

A low chuckle filled with dark amusement escaped from Draco's throat, a sound that brought a shadow of arousal in Harry. "You are not jealous, are you?" Draco whispered in his deceptively soft voice.

His temper flaring once more, Harry breathed onto Draco's neck, "You talk too much," before spitefully sinking his teeth into Draco's flesh, marking Draco as his and his alone.

When Harry drew back to drink in the sight of red bite mark upon near flawless skin, he saw an unexpected smirk gracing Draco's lips. "You are too easy to read, Harry," Draco said condescendingly, before grabbing Harry by his necktie, his tongue teasing Harry's lips, his body grinding into Harry's in achingly slow movement. "Don't you know that?" And with that, he forcefully pushed his way into Harry's mouth.

Even as Harry savoured the sensation of Draco's tongue roaming the inside of his mouth, he knew it was nothing more than a pretence, a mockery that was worse than scorn or refusal. As a sliver of frustration grew, Harry pinned Draco against the dusty bookshelf, and pried apart Draco's belt with such ease as he had done so for many a wicked night.

Like the prey of a serpent, Harry was being stealthily ensnared by silver chains that he could no longer escape from. And yet, Harry knew it in his flesh and blood that those lucid grey pupils of Draco's would never behold him in their depths.

* * *

It was an addiction; like an opium-user yearning for lethargic dreams, he longed for the sweet venom that was Draco Malfoy. It was not only Draco's body he desired; he wanted something much, much more. But more than anything, he wanted to once more lay eyes upon the vulnerable creature bathed in ethereal silver moonlight, the image that he could no longer behold except within his own ailing mind.

Late hours bled into early morning. Harry was alone in the Room, staring at the tattered map stretched out on the white stone table. Draco was not here; his name had vanished from the map around the midnight hour. Harry knew, with no small amount of agitation, where Draco had departed to. And yet the only thing he could do was wait restlessly in the Room as anxiety and jealousy gnawed at him.

When rays of pale light broke through layers of dark clouds, classes were resumed once more; yet it was clear to Harry that Draco had not returned to Hogwarts. His fellow Slytherins claimed he was sick-ridden in his room; Harry knew otherwise. As the day languished on, a peculiar sensation had settled itself uncomfortably in his stomach, refusing to rest.

Long hours passed before he was once more left to his own accord, and once more he pored over the Marauder's Map, willing it to reveal secrets it had no knowledge of. Night crawled by in slow motion, each minute turning into unbearable eternity.

Somewhere deep within the slumbering castle, a resonating series of chimes sounded thrice, a sound reminiscent of foreboding funeral bells. The sound brought Harry out of his brooding, and not long after he finally caught a glimpse of a familiar name materialised on the map. Swiftly folding up the map, Harry hid himself beneath the invisibility cloak and ventured into the domain of the night.

Like a silent shadow he effortlessly navigated through twisting passageways and hidden doorways, before he at last saw a dark figure stumbling along the near lightless corridor. Without a sound, Harry pranced forward in his natural agility. Quickly throwing the cloak over them both, he held the stiffened body close to his.

"It's me," Harry whispered into Draco's ear while savouring the lingering scent that was uniquely Draco's and the familiar contour of Draco's body that fit neatly against his own.

Ever so slightly the boy in his arms relaxed, but Draco could not hide the slight tremor Harry had begun to notice, a tremor Harry knew only too well. Biting hard on his lip, Harry remained silent as he helped Draco back to their Room, where a supply of medicine awaited on the low table before the burning fireplace.

Carefully lowering Draco onto the Regency _chaise longue_, Harry gave the vial of potion he recognised as one for alleviating the after-effect of Cruciatus to Draco, who wordlessly accepted it with his left hand.

Sitting on the low table, Harry studied Draco's haggard face closely: pallid skin resembling that of the dead, dark shadows beneath jaded eyes, and lips that seemed devoid of blood. Too pale and frail Draco appeared to be, as though he was suffering from some kind of illness.

"Take off your clothes," Harry commanded grimly as the thought that Draco might have sustained further injuries crossed uneasily in his mind. Without waiting for Draco's consent, Harry moved to pull the black robe off Draco before starting on his shirt. Not once had Draco attempted to stop Harry; it was as though he had nearly exhausted his strength and his will.

Harry bit back the sharp intake of breath as he stared at Draco's body; criss-crossed on his upper body were several newly healed scars that were burning red still, marring the smooth translucent skin. And judging by the awkward manner in which Draco held his right arm, it was obvious that his right arm was injured as well. At the sight of the scars, Harry could feel his blood boiling in his veins like liquid fire. As lightly as his trembling hands would let him, Harry refastened Draco's shirt and draped the robe over Draco like a blanket.

"Who did this?" Harry asked quietly as he tried to meet Draco's gaze, but Draco merely bowed his head. Kneeling before Draco so that he could see Draco's face, Harry asked sternly while clutching Draco's thighs, "Who did this?"

Dispassionate ashen grey met burning forest green; a slightly twisted smirk that seemed both sardonic and weary crept onto those bloodless lips of Draco's. "Do you honestly expect me to answer that?"

Digging his nails into Draco's thighs, Harry relentlessly questioned again, "Who was it? Was it Voldemort? Or was it another Death Eater? Bellatrix Lestrange? Your father?"

A peculiar expression flashed across Draco's face, before it disappeared like a wisp of smoke. "What does it matter to you?" Draco's voice was completely devoid of emotion, a voice that brought an odd pang in Harry.

Staring straight into Draco's reflective eyes, Harry spoke solemnly as he raised his hand to gently cradle Draco's cheek, a gesture Draco did not avert from, "I will kill them, each and every one of them, including Voldemort."

Intently those scrutinising grey eyes of Draco's were contemplating Harry's face, as though meaning to search for an answer to a question he had not known existed. "Are you sure you should be telling me this, knowing what I am?" Draco asked wryly.

And Harry's eyes never wavered once from the boy before him. "You have no loyalty for Voldemort. That I already know, and that's all I need." He felt himself drowning in those twin pools of liquid mercury; the bindings that had chained him to Draco was tightening ever so slightly, like a silken noose wound around his neck.

* * *

Suspicion was aroused in Harry when he was summoned to the headmaster office the next morning; the convenient timing to Draco's return could hardly be ignored. Determined to divulge nothing to the renowned headmaster of Hogwarts, Harry stared evenly at Albus Dumbledore, who was sitting behind his cluttered mahogany desk as always.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Harry began in a tone that was neither impolite nor amicable.

Those keen azure eyes of Dumbledore's were studying him intensely, as though attempting to unravel a mystery. "I know classes shall begin shortly, therefore I shall make it quick," Dumbledore spoke quietly before a shadow of sorrow flickered upon his face.

"The night before last, there has been a series of carefully coordinated attacks targeted at members of the Order; it lasted till last night. The news came to us only this morning." At that Dumbledore paused, as if unable to continue further, but continue he did. "One of the casualties is Remus Lupin."

Every part of Harry's being froze as he stared blankly at Dumbledore, unable to process what Dumbledore had said. Nevertheless, Dumbledore's voice cut through his fragile shield like an axe. "He was killed by a dozen of dark curses. It was a brutal death."

Seconds turned into minutes as Dumbledore's words began to sink in, yet Harry felt nothing, as if every last remnant of his emotions had deserted him. "Is that all you wanted to tell me, professor?" Harry heard himself say.

"Yes, it is," Dumbledore said as he looked at Harry with grave concern, his brows knotted into a troubled frown. "Harry, if there is anything..."

"I will let you know," Harry cut him off, then unceremoniously made his departure. He knew his uncharacteristic action might raise unwanted suspicion, yet at the moment he could not bother to care.

Burning hatred was the only emotion he allowed himself to feel, the cold fire that was slowly eating away at his heart, consuming him whole like swarm of worms consuming dead flesh.

The time for indecision had already passed.

* * *

The grand oak double door silently parted, admitting the lone dark figure into the Room. The figure strolled in with his innate grace, betraying none of the weaknesses he had displayed the night before. When the figure reached the white stone table, he halted, as if sensing intruding green eyes staring at him in the shadow.

"Were you involved in this?" Harry asked quietly as he leant against the wall, his wand a comforting weight in his hand. "Was that how you got injured?"

"You know what I am," Draco spoke with frightening composure; there was neither hesitation nor denial. Casual though his posture was, Harry was reminded of a leopard lying in wait, ready to pounce. "Should that not already answer your question?"

With well-honed precision Harry cut through the air with his wand; swiftly Draco dodged aside to avoid the curse, which struck the table instead. The curse made a deep cut on the smooth table surface, but Harry gave it little thought as he blocked the curse Draco had sent towards him in retaliation. It was like a re-enactment of their many duels from time past; yet this time the stake was much higher and the game all the more deadly.

"Ah, how treacherous of you," Draco mocked as he summoned a bookshelf to shield him from Harry's lightning curse, causing the bookshelf to explode, "to bite off the hand of the one who feeds you."

"Isn't that how it's supposed to be in the first place?" With a fire curse Harry burnt away the flying wooden shards Draco had sent forth. "To learn the Dark Arts so that I can kill Voldemort and his followers." And with that Harry shot another curse at Draco, tearing away a piece of fabric from Draco's robe.

"And to enjoy the control the Dark Arts grants you, I reckon." Draco smirked a victorious smirk while throwing a cleaving curse at Harry, which nearly sliced through Harry's shoulder. "But these are not the only reasons, isn't that right?"

Those sharp grey eyes of Draco's were piercing into Harry's soul like a knife, and Harry found himself unable to shut him out. As a surge of swift anger arose, Harry aimed his wand at Draco, and shouted, "_Crucio_!"

Yet Draco managed to throw himself aside in time; when he looked at Harry once more, his lips had curled into a bitter smirk. "You hate me, and yet you want me. You couldn't suppress these ugly feelings, could you? It hurts you so much that you inflict it on me instead, first the blackmail, then have me spread my legs for you. Tell me, how does it feel to see me kneeling on my knees in front of you, knowing I will never give you the one thing you desire above all else?"

Every restraint that had been straining to lock away Harry's rage was broken into irreparable fragments, for Draco had touched upon the fragile self that Harry was trying desperately to hide. As fury consumed every part of his being, he charged blindly at Draco, who could not avoid him in time. They crashed onto the ground in a messy heap, with Harry straddling Draco as he slammed Draco's head against the ground, his wild green eyes burning like fire. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

Consumed by rage, Harry almost did not see the flash of the blade in time; but seen it he had, and he pulled back just in time as the dagger grazed his clothes, his hold on Draco loosened. Almost immediately Harry felt Draco's hand yanking his hair and a cold blade pressing hard into his throat. Yet, bubbles of mirthful laughter welled up in Harry at the uncannily familiar situation he had once more placed himself in.

"Kill me, Draco," Harry taunted as his lips curled into a twisted smile, his haunted green eyes challenging Draco's poisoned grey. "Do it. I knew you wanted to kill me from the very beginning. Come on, I would rather it be you than Voldemort. Kill me."

Driven by reckless impulse, Harry deliberately slid his throat across the gleaming dagger. Sharp pain blinded him as he sensed the blade cutting into his flesh; but immediately the blade was withdrawn, and droplets of lurid crimson splashed upon Draco's ghostly pale face.

Drinking in the shock and tempest painted on Draco's visage, Harry felt as though he had crashed onto the harsh ground from great height, his body nothing more than a mangled mess of flesh and bones and blood. He laughed so hard that hot tears were sliding down his cheeks, even though he did not feel a hint of sadness in his heart.

In a flash, he gripped the hand that was wielding the dagger and pinned it to the ground. Like a ferocious storm Harry bruised Draco's mouth and neck with kisses and bites, staining Draco with his blood.

Suddenly, the pain in his throat sharpened as Draco tore at Harry's wound without mercy. As Harry struggled to breathe, he heard Draco announce the final sentence, "I won't let you die just yet. I want to see for myself how far you will fall!"

The agony kept Harry from collapsing into a heap of boneless flesh, and with open arms he welcomed it. Grabbing Draco's bloodstained hand tightly in his, Harry crushed his mouth against Draco's. Like a replay of their first encounter, Draco brutally sank his teeth upon Harry's lower lip, feeding them both with blood. Several heartbeats later, their bodies were entwined as they ripped each other apart in a violent intercourse of love and hate.

Like a drunken man he took Draco in his mouth, feeling those ruthless hands clawing his head and tearing at his hair. Raising his eyes, he saw those burning grey eyes flooded with hatred and lust and bloodthirst that was for him and him alone. It enthralled him, intoxicated him with its deadly delight.

He was brutal when he forced his way into Draco, tearing Draco apart; but neither was Draco gentle with him as he sank his teeth in Harry's shoulder in retaliation, the cold blade in his hand drawing blood carvings all over Harry's unspoiled back as though marking Harry as his kill, its frozen caresses thrilled Harry with ecstatic terror.

The unholy night languished on in a whirlwind of blood and insanity; and like a mad woman drunken in holy fervour, the moon transfixed its gaze upon the entangled bodies with zealous rapture.

* * *

It was a curse, one that no man on earth had a counter-curse for. His heart had been brutally ripped out of him, leaving a gaping hollow in his chest that was filled with poison. And the one who held it in his lily white hand had thrown it down and trampled all over it as though it was nothing more than rotten meat in a heap of rubbish.

* * *

Capricious rain was falling from heaven onto earth, shrouding the forest in a thin mist of mystery. Unheeding to the water drops that had clung onto his clothes and hair, Harry prowled deeper into the forest while training his eyes upon the dark figure up ahead.

As though sensing Harry's presence, the dark figure, who had been steadily navigating through the twisting wooden paths, halted. Purposefully Harry strolled towards the figure who was standing completely still amidst the green labyrinth, and ensnared his arms around the figure's waist.

"You are summoned again," Harry stated plainly; it was not a question but a simple statement, "at this time of day."

Twisting his head around to regard Harry, Draco said coolly with a twist of irony, "The wicked have no rest. Is that not what people always say?"

Dark green eyes narrowed conspicuously. Harry tightened his hold on Draco and caressed Draco's neck, feeling the steady pulse beneath his fingers. The faint scar on Harry's throat was pulsating to Draco's pulse; the markings on his back were burning as though something was forcing its way out. "What does he want with you?"

"I wouldn't know," Draco replied, his keen grey eyes boring into Harry's unnerving green as though in disquieting speculation, "as the Dark Lord kept his thought to himself."

"Is that so?" Harry responded with his head tilted, before descending his mouth over Draco's, not once noticing those silver pupils had flicked to the side as they caught a glimpse of brown mane vanishing rapidly into the woods.

But those grey eyes immediately glazed over and fluttered shut as Draco collapsed onto the mossy ground; Harry was looming over him with a wand in his hand. Crouching beside Draco's unconscious form, Harry gently brushed the blond locks away from Draco's face with a strange expression on his face.

Softly, as though afraid of waking up Draco, Harry whispered to him as he searched for the dagger Draco always carried with him, "Do you know how much I hate that Mark on your arm? Don't worry though, it won't hurt too much once it's over."

When Harry at last had the dagger in his hand, he pulled up Draco's left sleeve, letting the hateful Dark Mark be exposed to the elements. Expressionless was Harry's youthful face as he raised the dagger over the Mark, before bringing down the blade in one smooth arc, sealing the vow he had uttered to himself many nights ago beneath the witnessing pale moon.

He had ingested the poison; and now, he became the poison.

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: This is Harry's side of the story, taking place well before _Belial _and progressing to just before the confrontation between Hermione and Draco in _Azazel. _Lucifer is the bearer of light; it is said that he brings light to show that there is a way outside of God's construct, i.e. darkness.


	4. Astaroth

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are, regrettably, not mine.

Warning: Dark theme and violence.

Summary: Lupin has always been good at finding out secrets, even though he would rather remain oblivious.

**Astaroth**

_Too little, too late is the perfect recipe for calamity._

Being preternaturally perceptive to other people's emotions was a cursed talent he did not ask for. He was too good at noticing things no one else did, seeing things no one else could, to the point where he almost always inevitably stumbled upon secrets he ought not to have found out. If this was the gift granted to him for becoming a werewolf, Remus Lupin would rather give it back to the deity who had the rotten sense of humour to bestow this upon him.

Lupin remembered the last time he saw Harry -- fake, vacant smile beneath which hid a smoky, simmering anger that would spill over at the slightest hint of provocation, like an infected wound slowly rotting away. As Harry's mentor, Lupin should have acted as a scalpel and cut away the dead flesh in order to contain the disease. Why then had he kept his silence? Was he likewise contaminated?

Sirius was gone, just like James and Lily; history had proven itself to be a never-ending cycle. Nothing Lupin could do would bring them back from the dead -- the sensible voice in his head said. Nonetheless, his heart could not be so easily pacified. Like Harry, he wanted nothing more than to punish those people responsible for such atrocity.

If Lupin could not even convince himself to lay down the sword of retribution, how could he possibly persuade Harry to do so?

Even though he could not offer words of advice to Harry, he tried as best as he could to remain in contact with Harry through exchanging of letters. May it be lending an ear to Harry or letting Harry know he cared, Lupin only hoped his letters would at least stop Harry's unhealed wound from bleeding any further.

And then, a mere month since their parting, Lupin began to detect a gradual change in Harry.

The replies Lupin had received from Harry were becoming increasingly sparse, and the frequency in which Harry's friends were mentioned in the letters steadily declined. In addition, comparing Harry's earlier letters to his recent ones, there was a subtle yet noticeable difference in the wordings and the phrasing.

However, what bothered Lupin most was the scent radiating from the letters. It was not entirely Harry's, or rather, Harry's scent was mingled with another scent that smelled suspiciously like cedar. There was something vaguely familiar about the foreign presence, but Lupin could not put a name or a face to it.

Many explanations could be given for his discovery, but Lupin's intuition told him that the answer to this mystery was probably the simplest one of all: Harry had fallen in love with someone. The increasingly brief letters might have been due to Harry's preoccupation with his new love, or simply plain embarrassment.

While Lupin ought to feel happy for Harry, a sliver of unease was lurking at the back of his mind, refusing to rest. Call it his primal instinct, he was restless as a wolf who had caught onto a suspicious scent, a trail that might lead to either reward or ruin. Was it because of the faintly acidic odour lingering on the parchment, or the inky text that bled onto the other side of the page?

Then again, if Harry was reluctant to confide in Lupin, then Lupin would respect his wish and think no more of it. And yet, even though Lupin had no intention of prying into Harry's business, he ended up unravelling the mystery anyway.

* * *

It was a briskly cold day; the biting wind whipped at anything crossing its path. It was also the day when the students at Hogwarts were allowed to visit the village.

As a safety measure, Dumbledore had installed several members of the Order within Hogsmeade in the event that some unforeseeable situation might arise. Through luck, or more likely, through Dumbledore's deliberate design, Lupin was given the task of keeping a close eye on the patrons in the Three Broomsticks. It would not do for him to be identified, therefore he disguised himself as a scruffy-looking wizard.

Sitting by himself near the window that overlooked the nearly deserted main road, Lupin pretended he was doing the crossword puzzle in the _Daily Prophet_, a pot of hot tea on the table to perfect the image. Occasionally he would fill in some letters, then aimlessly look around him as though searching for inspiration. So far, there were no suspicious characters inside and outside the pub, but as Lupin had learnt over the years, everything could change at the slightest flick of a wand.

The heavy wooden door was pushed open, bringing in a chilly breeze and a pair of customers, who turned out to be Ron and Hermione. Harry was conspicuously absent, which was odd in itself. Curious though Lupin was as to Harry's whereabouts, he pushed aside his bemusement for the time being and concentrated on his task.

It was close to noon hour when Lupin finally saw Harry walking down the street with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Despite the dismal weather and a hint of fatigue shadowing his face, Harry appeared to be in relatively good spirit, his steps quick and light. And yet, Lupin felt an apprehensive chill coursing through his veins.

As soon as Harry stepped across the threshold and into the Three Broomsticks, Lupin understood why. The presence Harry exuded was unlike the one Lupin had known; it had somehow mutated, fused with the presence of another and a swirl of darkness, a testament that Harry had been practising the Dark Arts. The nearly choking fragrance of cedar and musk confirmed Lupin's suspicion that Harry had been indulging in the company of his secret lover not too long ago.

And this time, Lupin had no trouble identifying the mystery character hiding behind Harry like a shadow, a certain someone whose scent enveloped Harry in a passionate embrace -- it was Draco Malfoy.

Knowing he should not keep his gaze on Harry for a prolonged period of time, Lupin returned to his crossword puzzle. Nonetheless, his mind was reeling in shock at the latest discovery. How did the two supposed rivals end up crossing over the boundaries and into the uncharted territory of intimacy?

Casting a fleeting glance at the Gryffindor trio, Lupin saw the fluid manner in which Harry dismissed his lateness with a bashful smile that could fool everyone, everyone but Lupin. During the months that followed their parting, Harry had become much more adept at concealing his true thought, a feat which disturbed Lupin greatly. Had Harry found an able teacher in Draco, whom, even at a young age, Lupin could not entirely fathom out?

Had the infection spread into Harry's marrowbones much sooner than Lupin had anticipated? Or had Draco's presence merely accelerated the process? No, Lupin mentally shook his head, such brooding would not do at all. Harry could not remain as naive as he had been if he desired to survive the war; such was the sad reality. Perhaps Draco's unannounced intrusion into Harry's life was not as bad an idea as it appeared at first glance.

Heaving a sigh, Lupin contemplated the forlorn street and the leaden sky hanging overhead. He was in no position to judge, for he was one of those dirty adults who had prematurely thrust the young ones into a war initiated by adults.

It was a while later when another familiar figure entered Lupin's line of sight, a certain Slytherin with blond hair and pallid skin. Unlike the other pedestrians who were rushing about, Draco was leisurely examining the area around him, seemingly undisturbed by the brutal weather. There was nothing overtly imposing about Draco, but he reeked of metallic blood; Lupin could taste it even from behind the window.

With morbid interest and growing wariness, Lupin watched Draco make his way to the Three Broomsticks. The moment Draco entered the pub, Lupin was overwhelmed by the same scent Harry carried: cedar and musk with a blend of smoke and sunlight. If Lupin were to close his eyes, he doubted he could easily tell the two boys apart by their scents alone.

Almost at once, Lupin felt an uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck as though an insect had crept beneath his collar. Harry was fixing Draco with a naked gaze bespoke of hunger and possessiveness; it made Lupin's skin crawl. Casually as if it was by accident, Draco's silver orbs clashed with Harry's burning green. Those languid grey eyes of Draco's suddenly sharpened like a knife slicing through the dark, a look reserved for the victim whom he would bestow razor kisses upon. The invisible static crackling in the space between Harry and Draco caused Lupin's skin to tingle, the pressure so great Lupin found it difficult to breathe.

And then, as if the battle for domination was nothing more than an illusion, Draco nonchalantly turned away. After purchasing a bottle of Butterbeer from Madam Rosmerta, Draco took his leave. No one but Lupin saw the fierce, dangerous gleam in Harry's eyes as verdant pupils chased after Draco's retreating form.

* * *

The attacks on Ministry officials following the interlude at Hogsmeade had driven the thought of Harry and Draco out of Lupin's mind. According to certain sources, Voldemort was planning a _coup d'etat _against the Ministry of Magic. If he succeeded, it would spark the end of the uneasy standstill and the beginning of a laborious war.

The Order of the Phoenix was doing everything they could to prevent this from happening. Nonetheless, the increasingly strained relationship between the current Minister and Dumbledore had hindered the Order's effort to assist the Ministry.

Lupin was assigned to work alongside Snape and confirm the details regarding the impending assault. And yet, a sense of dread loomed over Lupin's heart like a vulture waiting to peck his flesh. His instinct was telling him that there was something suspicious about the leak of the information concerning the attack, but he could find no solid proof.

It was on the night of the waning crescent when he felt the ward he had placed around his temporary residence being probed. By the time Snape's Patronus hurried over to warn Lupin about the Death Eater's sudden assault against suspected members of the Order, the ward had been forcefully taken down. The battle that followed was a swift but brutal one. Lupin was at a disadvantage; not only was he facing five opponents at once, his enemies were carrying wolfsbane, the very herb that causes nausea in a werewolf.

By the time the dust was settled, two of the five Death Eaters were dead, and Lupin's temporary home became the miniature aftermath of a devastating war. Lupin himself was overpowered, his wand lost in the wreckage. The remaining Death Eaters bound Lupin's crippled body to the wall with sturdy chains and shackles before beginning their search.

In between the pain from injuries he was inflicted with and the unpleasant sensation of a chain wound around his neck, Lupin weighed his options while musing bitterly that his intuition had been correct after all. The supposed _coup d'etat _against the Ministry was nothing more than a smokescreen to lead Dumbledore and the Order astray.

One of the Death Eaters, who appeared to be the youngest out of the group, approached the sad remains of the wooden writing bureau, and crouched down to examine the scattered parchments on the floor. To Lupin's dismay, several of the documents happened to be letters from Harry; inwardly Lupin swore at himself for not burning the letters sooner. Nonetheless, instead of informing his colleagues of his discovery, the Death Eater pocketed the letters, much to Lupin's bewilderment.

As Lupin observed the Death Eater, he was startled to find that there was something oddly familiar about the manner in which the Death Eater moved about the room, a certain lazy, feline grace he had witnessed not too long ago. In several fluid paces, the Death Eater pounced across the room to stand before him, like a dancer who was about to invite him onto the dance floor. Even before the Death Eater discarded his black hood and white mask, Lupin knew whose face he would behold.

"Good evening, _Professor_ Lupin. Sorry for the intrusion." Draco Malfoy greeted Lupin in mocking courtesy. And then, turning to his comrade who was wearily knocking on the walls, Draco asked, "Can you leave me with him for awhile? I've been wanting to return the favour for what he did to my father."

"Go ahead, just pretend we aren't here," the Death Eater replied while twirling his wand around like a baton, seemingly unbothered by the fact that two of his fellow Death Eaters had been killed before his eyes. The other Death Eater, who was going through the cabinet, looked up briefly before returning to his task.

Composed though was Draco's demeanour, Lupin had a feeling the wheels inside Draco's head were turning at a furious rate. "He might be a werewolf, but he's still my former teacher. I'll at least give him a bit of dignity."

"Hmph, have it your way." After ushering his silent companion out the door, the Death Eater said sardonically, "Take care not to let him bite you, and keep him alive if you can," before shutting the door behind him.

When they were left alone at last, Draco cast a silencing charm over the room with his wand, an obvious attempt to prevent their conversation from leaving the confines of this room. "It's been awhile, _professor_," Draco began.

"Yes, it's been awhile," Lupin calmly responded as he studied Draco. From what he had witnessed thus far, Draco could handle himself well, almost frighteningly well for someone at his age. The only other person Lupin could think of who might rival Draco was Harry. "I see you've decided to tread the same path as your father."

"Are you going to say an apple never falls far from the tree?" Draco smoothly drawled, and with a lazy wave of his wand, repaired the table that was destroyed during the fight. Sitting at the edge of the table, Draco faced Lupin with his arms crossed. "I wonder if it is true in Potter's case as well. I've heard Potter's father was quite a bully at Hogwarts."

If Draco was deliberately provoking him into trying something immensely foolish, he had partially succeeded. After closing his eyes for several heartbeats to control himself, Lupin regarded Draco evenly and said, "We were young and foolish back then. None of us were proud of what we did."

"That's surprising." A condescending smile fluttered onto Draco's lips. "I thought you would jump to the defence of your old friend. Or perhaps, you couldn't?"

"I doubt the reason you want to be left alone with me is that you want to talk about my past," Lupin countered placidly, never once lowering his guard or his composure.

Like a rumour-monger who had caught wind of some scandalous news, Draco quirked a devious smirk, devilish grey eyes glittering with undisguised malice. "Avoiding the subject, I see? Is it so painful to think of James Potter, I wonder? Perhaps he was as much a sadist as little Harry." Pressing his palms on the table top, Draco tilted Lupin's chin up with the toe of his shoe. "You would know, wouldn't you? After all, James Potter was a good friend of yours."

The degrading implication behind Draco's words was not lost on Lupin. Amicable though Lupin always appeared to be, he could not help narrowing his eyes in agitation at the defamation of his friend. "Do you enjoy slandering the dead so much?"

The smirk on Draco's face broadened into a wicked grin. "Very, because it's always the living who suffers." In one smooth motion Draco pushed himself off the table and knelt in front of Lupin, before running an icy finger over Lupin's neck, gently yet tauntingly so. "See? Your pulse is racing. You are angry, but you can't do anything at all. Ah, I can't imagine how powerless you must be feeling right now. Was that how you felt as well when Sirius Black was murdered right before your eyes?"

The wolfish nature in Lupin could not be restrained for long. Blindly Lupin made to charge at Draco, but the metal chains prevented him from moving another inch, the leash around his neck choking him like a noose. Lupin's vision was beginning to swim; it was all he could do to keep his consciousness from slipping. Completely unfazed by Lupin's violent reaction, Draco tilted his head to contemplate Lupin, a gesture Lupin recognised with a pang as a habit of Harry's.

Taking several deep breaths, Lupin suppressed the blood-thirst in him and changed his tactic. "Do you hate Harry so much that you would drag his father and Sirius into it? No, it's more than that, isn't it?" A lurking suspicion though it may be, Lupin would venture a guess. "Did Harry force you into something against your wish?"

A sudden piercing glare from those mercurial eyes of Draco's was enough to inform Lupin of his victory. Nevertheless, Lupin felt no triumph over this, for it meant that the disease which plagued Harry had indeed spread into his bones.

"So you knew," Draco uttered softly, a neutral tone markedly different from his typical sardonic drawls.

"I've guessed," Lupin admitted freely, before casting a glance at the pocket of Draco's robe, where the letters were hidden. "You seem to have suspected it as well, or else you wouldn't have wanted to speak to me in private. And I suppose you are the one who's been teaching Harry about the Dark Arts as well." The latter was a speculation rather than an outright accusation.

Like an audience who had just witnessed a spectacular circus act, Draco applauded, praising Lupin for his sharp intuition. "It is true then that werewolves generally have much keener senses than humans do." A smile had crept onto Draco's lips; if anything, Draco seemed pleased to have his secret exposed. "That makes it much easier for me."

"You see, here is my dilemma. We were supposed to capture you and hand you over to your old friend Fenrir Greyback for further questioning." The mentioning of the werewolf who had turned him into one made Lupin grimace; the memory such name stirred up was not a pleasant one. "However, I cannot let you expose this little secret of mine in the process. Hence, here is my proposition to you. Instead of having you suffer through what will surely be a very demeaning interrogation, I will kill you right now. That way, you won't have to suffer through any further indignation, and I can rest assured that my secret will be safe."

Looking straight into Draco's eyes as best as he could, Lupin could not help but wonder what was truly lurking within those reflective pupils of Draco's. Was it indeed solely for the sake of keeping his secret that Draco had proposed the deal? "You will be defying Voldemort's command if you do that, and Voldemort is not exactly known for being forgiving."

There was not even the slightest hint of a quiver in Draco at Lupin's bold mentioning of the Dark Lord's name. "You don't have to worry about that." And then, Draco flashed a surprisingly winsome smile at Lupin, a smile that would have been charming to behold had it been shown in another setting. "What do you say then?"

Wearily shutting his eyes, Lupin analysed his situation. He was severely injured, his wand lost, with little to no chance of escaping under his current condition. If the remaining option was to suffer once more beneath the hands of Fenrir Greyback, he would rather die -- Draco clearly knew it as well. Drawing in a long breath, Lupin stared at Draco with clear hazel eyes, and replied slowly, "I agree. I will bring your secret to my grave. However, there is something I would like to ask of you."

A blond eyebrow arched in bemusement. "And what might that be?" Draco asked.

"If you are willing to, guide Harry along the path he must travel in order to defeat the Dark Lord."

For the first time, Draco looked genuinely surprised, his visage seemed a shade younger than before. Chuckling to himself, Draco said wryly, "Even at the cost of his soul? Fine then, I promise," before sealing his vow with a light kiss on Lupin's lips. And with that Draco stood up with his wand drawn, his face once more closed and unreadable. "I can't use the Killing Curse. Therefore, I'm afraid it will hurt, but I will make it quick."

Nodding at Draco in assent, Lupin closed his eyes for the very last time, and waited for the first blow to come. "Take care of yourself."

A veil of silence shrouded the room for some time, before Lupin at last heard Draco say softly, his tone conveying none of the patronising note from before, "Goodbye, Professor Lupin."

The first blow came swiftly upon him; Lupin could see nothing but brightening darkness as pain exploded inside of him. And then, second, third, fourth... after a while, he could no longer feel anything but a distant sensation that he was falling through the net of life and into the bottomless ocean.

* * *

_"Lupin is dead, my Lord. I killed him."_

_"I didn't tell you to kill him now, did I?"_

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: Astaroth, according to the Ars Goetia section of The Lesser Key of Solomon, "giveth true answers of things Past, Present, and to Come, and can discover all Secrets."

An entire year since I last updated this series; I ought to be ashamed of myself. Draco is still as sadistic as ever after a whole year. Ginny should be next, and I'll at least promise you that it won't take another year for the next part to come out.


	5. Satan

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Summary: Ginny cannot help letting her gaze linger on him, but little does she know she is beheld by another pair of eyes.

**Satan**

_Dreams are forbidden secrets meant to be kept, not shared._

The world of dreams is the domain of the impossible, where everything, however absurd it may be, makes the most perfect sense. In dreams, one's worst enemy could become the greatest of allies, and one's most trusted friend could become the most vicious of villains.

It was but for a second that Ginny Weasley unintentionally witnessed the unsettling truth, and yet it was a fleeting moment of revelation she was doomed to forget. A flash of green and a torrent of crimson bled into never-ending black, then brightened into a canvas of unmarked white.

When she returned to the world of wakefulness, she saw Professor McGonagall's grim face against the backdrop of the firelit corridor, her mind drawing nothing but a blank slate. It was only after Ginny was examined by the school matron, Madam Pomfrey, that she was able to piece together what happened: Someone had apparently cast a Cruciatus curse on her, before wiping away her memory of the incident.

The incident eerily echoed the events in her first year, which eventually led to a showdown with the Dark Lord's younger self. It was after the legacy of the Chamber was locked away in the vault of Hogwart's darkest secrets that she vowed never again to become a victim at the mercy of her enemy. And yet, her vow was easily broken by her mystery assailant as if it was made of paper. While in front of others she pretended to have suffered none too severely from the attack, bitterness at her incompetence gnawed at her pride, spilling angry red tears over her heart.

Like wild fire the news of the attack was spread rapidly amongst the student body in the following morning. Her brother, Ron, wrathfully swore to retaliate against the person responsible for torturing his little sister. Nevertheless, the investigation into the incident turned out fruitless, for the only known witness to the incident was Ginny herself.

For her part, Ginny put on a facade of normalcy and followed her usual routine as closely as she could. It was not merely for the sake of causing as little worries to those around her as she could manage; it was her act of defiance against her mystery attacker, who must surely be observing her in the shadow. And she would not allow her assailant the satisfaction of seeing her cowering in a corner like a hunted animal.

* * *

In the half-empty Gryffindor common-room, she sat quietly by the blazing fireplace with her old Transfiguration book open on her lap. Instead of studying, however, she was watching her brother playing chess with his best friend, Harry Potter. Judging by the deep wrinkles etched on Ron's brow, it appeared he was debating with himself over the next move. It was unusual to see Ron being challenged, particularly when the opponent was Harry. Out of curiosity, Ginny cast a glance at the chessboard; black had put white in check. Although she was hardly an expert in chess, she surmised that Harry's skill in chess must have improved considerably for Ron to feel threatened.

Inevitably she turned her gaze upon Harry: carelessly unruly dark hair, intense green eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses, a good-natured smile suggestive of apology to his friend. Years ago she had given up on her unrequited adoration for her brother's best friend, for she wanted neither sympathy nor pity, not from one who had stood witness to her most vulnerable moment in the Chamber. And yet, there were times when Ginny could not help letting her gaze linger a second longer upon him than was healthy for her.

When Ron finally decided to sacrifice his knight to save the king, Ginny saw a most unexpected expression flash across Harry's face. One eyebrow arrogantly arched, a sardonic quirk of the lips almost too quick for the eye to see -- Harry reminded her disconcertingly of a certain someone, though she could not rightly tell who it was. The transformation lasted for a mere second before he returned to the Harry Potter Ginny had known and admired.

Suddenly losing interest in the game, she closed her book with a soft thud and stood up, only to be stopped by Ron, "Are you going out? I'll come with you."

Ron had been acting the part of the overly protective brother lately, accompanying Ginny wherever she went and not letting her out of his sight if he could help it. While such was his way of showing his concern and affection for his little sister, Ginny sometimes wished he could find a less intrusive method to express his feelings.

"I'm just going up to my room," Ginny said while attempting to suppress her exasperation.

"Oh, okay," Ron answered before directing his attention back to the game. "Make sure you stay there. And don't go wandering off without telling me first." To which Ginny replied dryly, "I'll do the best I can."

Smiling amiably, Harry said, "Goodnight," and Ginny forced herself to return the smile. She could not explain it, but she felt oddly uneasy by the smile; it was as though her subconscious had recognised something in Harry her consciousness had not.

The night was still young, and her roommates had yet to return to the dorm-room. Being alone in her room was a pleasant deviation from the unwanted attention she had garnered lately. Nevertheless, as she walked over to her bed, she was startled by a soft-spoken voice that resonated terribly with the chords of her soul. "Hello, love."

Her half-formed scream never left her mouth as her eyes fell instantly upon a tall figure leaning lazily against the ornate bedpost of her bed -- a boy dressed up as a Hogwarts student, his fluid black robe enveloping him like velvet shadow. Against the backdrop of the deep crimson draperies, his classically handsome face was tinted a bloodthirsty red. Those inky blue eyes of his were fixed upon her as a serpent's cold pupils would at its marked prey.

As soon as her gaze collided with that of the demon from her hateful past, every fibre of her being vibrated with disbelief and dread. Unconsciously she mumbled to herself, trying to deny the vivid vision that had presented itself before her, "You weren't supposed to exist anymore. You should've disappeared already."

The spectre that was Tom Riddle ticked his tongue, feigning a hurt expression over Ginny's blunt remark. "Now, now, is that the way to greet an old friend?"

After recovering from the shock, she found the reckless courage in her to exclaim, her liquid brown eyes flashing like those of a cornered animal, "Get out of my sight, Tom! Go back to whichever hell you came from! You don't exist outside that bloody diary!"

With a small twisted smile, Tom replied in an airy tone as soothing as Ginny's outburst was jarring, "But I do, love. After all, am I not standing before you right now?" At that he spread his arms in emphasis, a seemingly innocent display of cordiality that could fool anyone but Ginny. "I don't need the diary as long as I have you."

"What do you want?" Ginny questioned the despicable phantom before her, her voice laced with desperation and the slightest quiver of fear.

"I want to help you, love," Tom whispered in his silky voice, seductive yet patronisingly so, "since it appears you have gotten yourself into quite a predicament lately."

Unable to suppress her overflowing emotions anymore, Ginny threw her Transfiguration book at Tom, who nimbly dodged aside with the agility of a dancer. The book hit the bedpost with a dull thud, before crashing onto the floor like a lifeless corpse, limbs spread apart and pages scattered like blood.

"I suppose I shall take my leave for today," Tom said light-heartedly and made a courteous bow, before disappearing without a trace. "I'll be seeing you again soon, my pet."

A trill of dark amusement lingered in the air like fragrance refusing to fade. Feeling as if she was tainted by the malevolent presence, Ginny furiously rubbed her arms while fighting off the overwhelming urge to shudder.

* * *

Dreams could not be carried over to reality -- such was the rule being set in stone. If ever dreams were seeping into the real world, the one who broke the cast-iron seal would be branded an outcast to be locked away in the asylum. Ginny understood the rule well, therefore she told no one of her encounter with Tom.

White-washed light flowed into the cheerless corridor from the lattice windows, painting shadows of deformed rhombuses on the pallid stone floor. Strolling along the deserted corridor, Ginny could hear muffled sound trickling from behind closed doors. She was on her way to see Pomfrey, who insisted on performing one final check-up on her before declaring she had fully recovered from the ordeal. Nonetheless, Ginny was the only one who knew her wounded pride would not be so easily healed.

Brisk footstep was coming towards her direction, prompting her to tense in alarm, her hand inching towards her wand. A lean figure swiftly entered her line of sight, his blond hair swaying slightly as he halted -- it was Draco Malfoy.

Biting her lips in agitation, Ginny glared at Malfoy in defiance. If there was one person whom Ginny suspected of being responsible for her plight, it was Draco Malfoy. After all, his father was the mastermind behind the Chamber of Secrets incident that had plagued Hogwarts some years ago. Nonetheless, there was no evidence of any sort that could link the Malfoy heir to what had happened to her on that moonless night.

Expressionlessly Malfoy regarded her, his mercurial eyes narrowed as though annoyed. In a drawling voice bespoke of boredom, he asked, "Something I can help you with, Weasley? You are not lost, are you?"

"Very funny, Malfoy," Ginny retorted, before eyeing the white bandages wrapped around Malfoy's hand. "But it looks like you were the one who needed help."

"An unfortunate accident." Nonchalantly the Slytherin waved his injured hand while contemplating Ginny with a piercing look she could not decipher. "You, on the other hand, seem to have a tendency for playing a damsel in distress."

Pursing her lips at Malfoy's uncanny insight, she snapped spitefully at him, "And you have a tendency for playing the villain. So let us hope you are not involved in any shady business lately." At that she stalked away, not knowing the boy was watching her retreating back with a calculated expression on his face.

As soon as she escaped from Malfoy, she let out a frustrated sigh and walked on, quickly arriving at the entrance of the hospital wing. As she was about to step through the threshold, however, she caught a sliver of red and gold out of the corner of her eye. Pausing on her step to take a closer look, she found a small strip of scarlet-and-gold fabric lying on the floor by the wall. A spark of recognition prompted Ginny to pick it up, and to her surprise, she discovered that it was the burnt remains of a Gryffindor tie.

Turning the fabric over, she wondered why a Gryffindor would burn his or her tie. Then again, it was no business of hers. Carelessly she let go of the scrap of charred cloth, and like a feather it fell onto the ground without a sound, obediently accepting its fate.

The examination that followed went as well as it could be; not once did Ginny breathe a word about Tom. At last satisfied with Ginny's progress, Pomfrey announced that she did not need to come to the hospital wing for any further check-ups.

By the time Ginny left the hospital wing, the ashen sky had grown dim with the first blush of twilight. Warm, golden flame was lit along the corridor like a mirthful parade, chasing away the veil of dusk that had descended upon the castle. Classes had yet to end, and once more she found herself walking alone on the school corridor.

Nonetheless, like a poltergeist unwilling to remain silent for long, a damnably familiar voice rang out within the archaic corridor, "Hello again, my pet. It's good to see you are looking better."

Immediately Ginny snapped her head towards the boy who was walking casually beside her as if he had been accompanying her all along; Ginny's initial shock quickly gave way to fury. "I don't want to see you, so go away!"

Despite Ginny's strong words, Tom did not waver once; instead, he smiled a curious smile at her. "Ah, so spirited. But I like that." Ginny had the grace to blush in indignation, which only made Tom's smile broaden into a grin. "Don't worry, I'm not here to cause you any harm. I'm just here to offer you a word of advice."

Suspicious of Tom's motive, Ginny sent a sidelong glance at Tom and asked, "Why should I listen to you? You are good at deceiving people."

Ignoring her last comment, Tom spoke placidly while fixing his shrewd blue eyes upon Ginny's fiery brown, "But I'm going to say it anyway. Be wary of Harry Potter."

Reflexively Ginny stopped dead on her track; it was not what she had expected Tom to say. Forcing herself to stare straight into Tom's emotionless irises, she narrowed her eyes in aggravation. "You're just trying to manipulate me. Sorry to disappoint you, but I know Harry. He's my friend, and I trust him more than I trust you."

"Of course you do, since he's also the object of your unrequited affection," Tom added, almost triumphantly as if he could hear every thought that was running through her mind. "But my dear, love can blind a person from the truth."

Resentment seeped into Ginny's mind like ink being spilt onto pure white satin, for she understood well that Tom knew everything about her as no one else of this world ever could. From the moment she poured her soul out to the cursed diary, she had invited the demon disguised as her loyal confidant into the locked chamber that was her vulnerable heart.

Tearing her eyes away from the devil wearing an impeccable mask of geniality, she beheld the distorted reflection on the glass window; Tom was looming over her like a dark, ominous shadow about to swallow her whole. Stifling a shiver, she willed desperately for her voice not to tremble. "That's none of your business. And besides, I've already gotten over him."

Fully anticipating to hear mockery coming out of Tom's mouth, it was to her surprise and bewilderment that Tom merely shrugged in dismissal. "Whatever you say, love. Just be careful around him." There was an enigmatic note in his tone bespoke of undisclosed knowledge, and instinctively she turned to look at him, only to find a secretive smirk gracing his well-shaped lips. "Sometimes, you never know."

As Ginny was about to ask what he meant, Tom disappeared like a wisp of purple smoke. Seconds later, doors to various classrooms were unceremoniously opened, and students eagerly poured out onto the corridor, completely oblivious to what had taken place moments ago. And Ginny remained motionless by the window, that smooth, velvety voice of Tom's resonating in her mind like the summoning of a siren.

* * *

The atmosphere in the golden Great Hall was noisy as always, but Ginny was in no mood to appreciate the bustle around her. Being a past victim to Tom's devious manipulation, Ginny knew deception was one talent Tom particularly excelled in. It would be nothing short of folly on her part to believe in his words. And yet, why was she unable to drive his warning out of her mind?

Inevitably she cast her gaze upon Harry, who did not seem at all different from his usual self. No, there was something different about him. After scrutinising Harry more closely, Ginny found his tie conspicuously missing. Flashing back to the strip of fabric she had found near the hospital wing, she wondered if it belonged to him. Unable to resist her curiosity, she asked casually, "Harry, did you lose your tie?"

As though the fact that his tie was missing never crossed his mind, Harry stared blankly at her for several beats, before he gestured at his collar. "Oh, this? I took it off. Why do you ask?"

There was little reason for her to conceal her discovery, therefore she replied candidly, "Nothing. I just found some charred scrap that looks like a Gryffindor tie on my way to the hospital wing. So I thought I'd ask."

What happened next even Ginny herself could not rightly tell. A vague sense of panic sprung from a distant, half-forgotten nightmare was aroused in her as Harry's burning green eyes met hers. A sense of inexplicable unease clawed at her heart; she felt helpless as a sparrow staring at a predatory hawk whose wings could easily outstrip hers. But that was beyond absurd. Why should she be afraid of Harry?

So absorbed in her own rumination was she that she failed to notice those darkened ink green eyes flickered briefly at something over her shoulder before turning back to her.

After a tantalising beat, an unassuming, bemused smile wormed its way onto Harry's lips, the tension from before all but evaporated. A sliver of doubt crept into Ginny's mind, forcing her to question if it was merely her imagination and nothing more. And yet, what of her racing heartbeat and the overpowering desire to draw her wand?

"Perhaps someone simply isn't very fond of Gryffindors," Harry answered leisurely, his demeanour a flawless display of friendly bemusement. "I certainly wouldn't go around setting my tie on fire."

It was only afterwards that Ginny realised Harry had not given a direct reply to her query.

* * *

Days of unease and confusion languished on as if heavy iron chains were fastened upon the ankles of the prisoner called Time.

Within the vaulted underground Chamber, she was locked in a fierce sword fight with her opponent, every metallic clash rebounded from stone walls and back to her like thunder crashes. A furious storm of attacks rained down upon her without mercy; it was all she could do to parry with her own sword.

Her opponent never once gave her a pause, hailing attack after attack at her, exploiting her weakness with glee. No longer could she even attempt to retaliate; she could barely defend herself against such ferocious assault. With nonchalant ease, her opponent found an opening and struck. The sword pierced through her chest, and before she even registered what had happened, the blade was roughly pulled out of her, spilling her blood everywhere. Losing her momentum, she fell back and hit the ground with a thump, her sword laid useless beside her.

Her chest was burning as if her heart was set on fire. Although she could not see it, she knew she was bleeding profusely, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. An interlocking wave of pain and fear was aroused in her, prompting her to struggle for her life. She tried to back away from her assailant; and yet when she locked eyes with him, she froze.

Cold, midnight forest eyes were piercing into hers like the sharpest of steel, shattering her soul into million fragments. Painted upon his white shirt were splashes of crimson, and wound loosely around his neck was a tie of scarlet and gold. Gracing his lips was a sardonic, haughty smile transplanted from the visage of another. Cruelly and effortlessly her attacker raised the sword above her, before bringing it down in a flash to its grand finale with such swiftness she did not even have time to scream--

Snapping her eyes open, Ginny woke up from her nightmare. Her heart was racing furiously, and she clamped it down with her hand. Sitting up from her bed, she wiped away the sweat on her forehead and hugged her trembling body tightly, willing herself to erase from her mind the image of the boy looming menacingly over her.

_No_, she shook her head violently as if doing so would ward off the malevolent thought from her mind. She only dreamt of it because Tom had been putting doubt into her head, and she refused to be swayed by one who regarded people as toys to be manipulated as he pleases. Reclining on the bed once more, she urged herself to go back to sleep.

The insomniac night waned away in slow motion, and Ginny, tossing and turning in her bed, could take it no more. Stealthily she crept out of bed, and draped the ivory jumper her mother knitted for her over her pyjamas. Taking her wand with her, she quietly slipped out of the dorm-room and descended to the empty common-room.

Sensing her presence, the dying embers in the fireplace were at once reignited in greeting. Grateful for the warmth, she curled up on the sofa before the hearth and distracted herself by flipping through a book someone left behind on the table. She wanted -- needed -- to keep her mind occupied lest she dwelt on the dream once more.

"Staying up so late, love? If I may say so, sleep deprivation is not good for you." Tom's smooth and ever condescending voice trickled into Ginny's ear like silk.

Recoiling away as if bitten, Ginny stood up and drew her wand in a flash at the velvet-clad spectre sitting on the sofa, the dull sound of the book hitting the ground never once registered in her mind. "I've had enough of your damn charade! I'm not playing your bloody game anymore! Now get out of my sight!"

Lit by the roaring flame, Tom's pupils appeared to shimmer with a dash of unsettling gold. Tom coolly contemplated the wand trained upon him, before tilting the tip of the wand away from his face.

"That's not very nice, Ginny." For once he called her by her name, his voice deepened to a dangerous edge liken to the low growl of a beast before it pounces. "Am I not being accommodating all this time?"

"I've never asked you to do anything!" Ginny exclaimed loudly, momentarily forgetting that many of her schoolmates were still asleep upstairs. "You've been putting things into my head long enough!"

Languidly Tom leant into the cushioned back of the sofa with his legs crossed, before a wicked grin abruptly appeared on his lips, brightening his charming visage. Ginny was never more afraid of him than she was at this moment, for it was like staring at a devious serpent who knew every one of her unspeakable secrets.

"I haven't put anything into your head that wasn't already there in the first place, love."

Fury and terror and uncertainty for the past few weeks melded into the purest form of human instinct, crushing down upon Ginny in torrents. Driven by desperation and loathing and fear towards the malicious being before her, she uttered the first incantation that came to her mind, "_Avada Kedavra_!"

A flash of deadly green lit the room with an eerie glow, a colour that reminded her oddly of a certain pair of green eyes. But Tom was no longer there. The curse hit the sofa and burnt a hole through the thick upholstery, before scarring the stone floor and leaving behind its eternal mark. Panting heavily, Ginny stared at the sofa, unable to believe she had succeeded in casting the Killing curse. Instead of feeling victorious, however, she felt as though the venom of darkness was coursing through her veins, violating her soul and tainting her blood an inky black.

And Tom's voice rang out once more within the chamber that had stood witness to the unforgivable act. "You can't get rid of me, love. Deny me all you want, but I'll always be here." Ginny could feel a phantom finger gently tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear; she flinched as if she was slapped. "Don't worry. I will take care of Harry Potter for you. After all, I am a part of you, and I will always be watching over you. As long as you cannot forget me, I will remain by your side for eternity."

When dreams bled into reality, they metamorphosed into the most pristine and primal beasts called Nightmare.

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: According to Binsfield's classification of demons, Satan is the demon of wrath. One manifestation of wrath is violence. This piece is different from the others in that its main focus is on Ginny (and Tom), and not so much on Harry and Draco. One should say that while she sees hints here and there, she is unable to connect the dots.


End file.
